


A Matter of Habit

by DHW



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Age-Gap Relationship - Younger Character Tops, Bottom Elim Garak, Earn Your Happy Ending (TV Tropes), Espionage, First Time, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort - Bonding Over Shared Trauma, M/M, Obsidian Order, Section 31 (Star Trek), Sexual Tension, Time Travel, Time Travel - to fix an apocalyptic future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-12-27 03:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21111668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: His mission is simple: DESTROY OMIGOS 15.The year is 2347, and the galaxy is on the brink of war. Sent back into the past by the Federation's Department of Temporal Investigations, Dr Julian Bashir finds himself unwittingly embroiled in secret war between Section 31 and the Obsidian Order. Caught in a deadly game of secrets and lies, he knows one thing for certain: he must destroy Omigos 15.And time is running out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TiaNaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaNaut/gifts).
**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
Check out this absolutely stunning art by [Aqvarelles](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/aqvarelles) of [YOUNG GARAK](https://aqvarelles.tumblr.com/post/630086339946332160/he-was-beautiful-julian-thought-not-simply). It's quite possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  
♥ ♥ ♥  


  
  
  


>   
Botanical gardens provide the largest physical resource for integrated conservation action, leading to the preservation of endangered species ex situ. The botanical gardens of Omigos 15 are widely considered to be the greatest example of this principle in action, hosting at least 23.4 million Alpha Quadrant species, equating to 39% of all plant species diversity, 68.3% of which are classified as Threatened or Endangered. 5.2% of these species are no longer considered extant outside of the globe.
> 
> Since the discovery of the Omigos system by the crew of the USS: Attenborough in 2183, the gardens located within Globe 15 have been in a state of constant, independent development, leading to their rise to prominence as the foremost botanical resource in the galaxy. 
> 
> Though the origin of the globes of Omigos remains shrouded in mystery, its current position within the Oclid System renders this resource truly neutral, serving both Federation and non-Federation interests alike. The value of this arrangement could be considered as important a contribution to the Alpha Quadrant as the gardens themselves, if not moreso. 
> 
> \-- Ruiz, R. J. 2302. _A Brief History of the Alpha Quadrant._ New New York: NNYPC Ltd.  


  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
“There must be some mistake,” said Julian Bashir as he scanned the PADD before him.

The young doctor sat back in his chair, casting a wary glance across the table. The woman sat opposite inclined her head, her expression polite but not friendly. Smartly dressed in Federation-issue black pinstripes, no combadge in sight, she produced a stylus from her pocket and began to scroll through her own device. 

“No mistake, Dr Bashir,” she said. “The records the Department of Temporal Investigations holds on the incident are quite accurate. The genetic information obtained during your stay is an exact match.” The DTI Agent gestured insistently to the PADD. “You were present during the incident in question.”

Julian pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a headache clawing at his temples. None of this made sense. 

The genetic resequencing had rendered many of the memories from Julian’s previous self a little fuzzy around the edges. It had been a side effect of the treatment; whilst the human brain was truly remarkable in its capacity to deal with trauma, the extreme level of cognitive dissonance produced by procedure often resulted in damage to the newly grown neural networks if not dealt with correctly. Out of necessity, Jules' thoughts, memories, and feelings had been made dull, almost dream-like, making way for those of Julian. Clever, careful Julian. 

Still, Julian thought, he would almost certainly remember the explosion of something like a space station, dream or not. Especially if, as the Agent had said, he was the man responsible. 

“I was six years old in 2347,” he said. “It can’t be me; I didn’t leave Earth until I was almost seven. And if I had, I rather think I’d remember blowing up a space station.” 

“Of course you don’t remember it,” the Agent said. “It hasn’t happened yet, temporally speaking. Which is precisely why we are here to deal with the situation.”

Julian couldn’t quite suppress a small groan of irritation. He pressed his fingers into his temples, trying to ease the tension there. Temporal mechanics. He _hated_ temporal mechanics. It was enough to give anyone a headache, genetically enhanced or otherwise. 

“I’m sorry, Agent —?” interrupted Captain Sisko. 

Sat beside Julian, he folded his hands upon the table and looked expectantly across the table.

“Brown,” replied the woman with a nod. 

“I’m sorry, Agent Brown, but can we please start from the beginning? For those of us not quite so at ease with temporal mechanics, it might make things a little less confusing,” said Sisko. 

“Very well,” said Agent Brown, setting her PADD down upon the table. “It has come to our attention that Dr. Bashir, that is the Dr Bashir of this particular time period, was present upon the 15th Globe of Omigos in 2347. I have been sent by the Department of Temporal Investigations to ensure that contamination of the timeline does not occur during the Doctor’s brief foray into the past.”

Julian frowned and said, “Omigos.” He ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “Now why does that ring a bell?”

“The destruction of the Omigos system was one of the driving forces behind the start of the Federation-Cardassian War, Doctor,” said Sisko with a frown. A hint of reproach in his voice, he continued, “I’m surprised you don’t remember it from your lectures at the Academy.”

Julian shrugged. “I’m afraid history has never been my strongest subject.”

“In which case,” said Agent Brown with a roll of her eyes. “I am sure you’ll be thrilled to learn that the destruction of the Omigos system occurred in-”

“Let me guess, 2347?”

“Correct, Doctor,” she replied.

A sinking feeling had settled in Julian’s stomach. Looking down at the PADD before him, he watched as an image of the Omigos system appeared onscreen. Eighteen orbs, connected in a ring by thin, hollow tubes like beads on a string. Most of the orbs were broken; only one remained intact, its bright golden light drawing the eye like a magnet. Omigos 15. 

“And what do you want from me?” Julian said, uneasily.

“Precisely what I told you five minutes ago: I want you to ensure its destruction.” Agent Brown set her perfectly-manicured hands flat upon the table and said, “Information acquired by Federation Science Outpost λ48502 has indicated that the destruction of Omigos 15, and subsequently the rest of the globe system, is a vital node in the fabric of this dimension’s space-time continuum. Without the destruction of Omigos, reality ceases to exist around 2359.”

A silence descended upon the room, the Agent’s words weighing heavily in the air. Destruction of Omigos 15, or the destruction of their own reality and everything within it? It seemed like a simple choice; and yet... 

“But surely that just indicates that we are in a redundant timeline?” Julian said, thinking back to half-remembered lectures on temporal mechanics. “The destruction of this particular branch of reality would just be a correction back to the main timeline.” 

Morbid as it was, it was an oddly comforting thought: if this was merely an errant splinter of time, then perhaps all the horrors of the Dominion, possibly even the Federation-Cardassian War given where the split had occurred, had never happened at all. Perhaps, instead, there would have been peace.

Agent Brown shook her head. “No, you misunderstand me, Doctor. We are not talking about the ending of this particular reality, but all reality. In all dimensions.”

It took a moment for the weight of the situation to hit. 

“An apocalypse,” said Sisko, his face grim.

Agent Brown nodded. “Precisely. Hence why we require Dr Bashir’s cooperation regarding his temporal displacement. He must ensure that Omigos 15 is destroyed.”

Confused, Julian leant forward in his seat and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand. What’s so important about Omigos 15? And why would its continued existence result in an apocalypse?”

Agent Brown shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She cleared her throat, eyes dipping briefly to her hands before her attention turned to Julian once more. 

“Time, Dr Bashir, is only linear when observed from the inside. Research undertaken by Outpost λ48502 and other stations like it indicates that time forms a web-like structure. It is a vast set of temporally static nodes connected by constantly fluctuating vertices. The moments located within these nodes _must_ occur, but the connections between these nodes are constantly in flux. It is, in vastly oversimplified terms, what allows us to travel through time outside of our own linear sequence with relative impunity. In other words, we are able to exploit these non-static moments without disrupting the web.” 

“But the destruction of Omigos 15 is not one of these flexible moments,” said Julian. 

“Correct. Remove a node and the structural integrity of the web is compromised.”

“Resulting in an apocalypse.”

Agent Brown tilted her head in agreement. “To date, there have been no other recorded incidents of travel to these nodes. Until recently, we believed it impossible.”

“Well, unluckily for me, it seems like it’s not.”

A heavy silence descended upon the wardroom. Julian shifted uneasily in his chair. Destroying a space station was hardly a run of the mill mission objective. The fact that the destruction of said space station had happened almost 30 years previously was simply the icing on the cake. He tried not to think of all the ways things could go wrong. All the people that could get caught in the cross-fire. 

After a minute or so, Sisko cleared his throat and said, “How long will Dr Bashir be on Omigos 15?”

“According to our records,somewhere between two and three days. Unfortunately, we don’t know the exact time of his arival” Agent Brown gestured towards the PADD that sat untouched in front of Sikso. “It’s all there in the brief, Captain.”

“Presumably you have some plan in place to ensure the Doctor is able to carry out his orders with relatively minimal risk?” Sisko pinned the DTI Agent with a hard stare. “I expect the Doctor to return to his own time in one piece, Agent Brown.”

“Of course, Captain. As you may recall, the death toll directly associated with Omigos 15’s destruction was zero; information held by the Department of Temporal Investigations indicates that Dr Bashir returns to his own time shortly after the detonation.” Agent Brown paused for a moment, then added, “Assuming no deviation from our records, obviously. As with all temporal missions, there exists a non-zero risk of irreversible timeline contamination. Should Dr Bashir fail to complete his assigned task, then—”

“It doesn’t matter what happens; there will be no reality left for me to return to,” Julian said, darkly. 

Captain Sisko looked troubled. Julian watched as he toyed with a tumbler of water. After a moment, he took a drink then said, “Then we best ensure that does not happen. For all our sakes.”

A murmur of agreement filled the wardroom. 

“The Doctor’s identification papers and visa have already been fabricated, Captain. He will be posing as a doctor named Sadiq Jal, former CMO of USS McClintock. Several members of the Medical Unit stationed on Omigos 15 had been struck down with Arethian Flu during the time period in question, providing the perfect cover for Dr Bashir. As part of the Medical Unit, he will have complete and unfettered access to all of the globe.” 

Julian scrolled through the document on the PADD. The Department of Temporal Investigations really had been rather thorough. Someone had worked very hard to make his integration into the past as easy and seamless as possible. Not only had they fabricated a convincing backstory for him, but they had also gone so far as to organise his accommodation (Flat No. 16, keys located beneath the doormat), his clothing (two standard issue medical uniforms, size S, plus sundry socks and, embarrassingly, briefs), and a fully-stocked, time-appropriate med-kit. Julian was impressed. He skimmed through the files and saw schematics of the globe; detailed maps of the paths and structures in each hemisphere; architectural plans of the five glasshouses and central laboratory. Patient records, sixteen in total, were attached to his schedule, all completed in his own spindly handwriting. 

One piece of information, however, was noticeably missing. 

“I see, Agent Brown, that there’s no mention in the files of exactly how the explosion happened. Only that the origin of detonation was somewhere in the Terran Hothouse.” 

The DTI Agent grimaced. 

"Unfortunately, our intelligence on the subject is somewhat limited."

"Surely there are records? There must have been some sort of investigation after the explosion?”

"Much of the information relating to the incident remains classified, and given the fixed nature of the time point, we are unable to send in an observer from our department. However, what we do know is that you, Dr Bashir, were observed in the Hothouse shortly before the detonation."

"Well, that's rather incriminating."

"Our thoughts, precisely." Agent Brown glanced down at her PADD, and said, "At 06:43, Dr Jal and a Cardassian accomplice were observed by Officer Luther Sloan in the Terran Hothouse, later found to be the epicentre of the explosion."

At the mention of Luther Sloan’s name, Julian and the Captain shared a brief, knowing look. The potential involvement of Section 31 was troubling. Julian wondered whether Agent Brown was aware of Sloan's affiliation. 

Before he could tease any further information from the DTI Agent, Captain Sisko began to speak. There was a spark in his eyes that made Julian feel uneasy. 

"You mentioned a Cardassian?” he said. “Do you have a name, Agent Brown?" 

"Er, yes," she replied. "A Mr Jayr Neic, suspected alias of an Obsidian Order operative, code name _Ta’kak_."

Sisko gave Julian a questioning look. The Universal Translator had failed to provide the Standard equivalent; a quirk of the software, it left proper nouns untouched lest it cause confusion. Though by no means fluent in Kardassi—his grasp of the language was passable enough for stilted conversation and the odd novel—Julian recognised the word. His heart sank.

“It means ‘Tailor’,” he said.  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
Time, or so the saying goes, waits for no man. It runs on a schedule entirely of its own devising; a schedule that does not cater to the whims of Julian Bashir.

There was less than five minutes to go before he was to be sent back into the past. Quite how that was going to happen was unclear. This was another area in which the information gathered by the Department of Temporal Investigations was desperately lacking. All Julian knew was that it would happen at exactly 18:42, station time. And that 18:42 would be upon him entirely too soon. 

He was busily searching through the stock of antivirals in the Infirmary when he heard a familiar voice hail him from the door. 

“Doctor!”

Julian turned at the sound and felt his heart skip a beat.

"I'm afraid this isn't really the time, Garak," he said, firmly ignoring the way his stomach seemed to fill with butterflies at the sight of his friend. 

"Nonsense. Why, my dear Doctor, there is always time for literature."

Dressed in red and gold, Garak strode into the Infirmary, brandishing a book in Julian’s direction. A physical book, rather than the more usual data stick, bound in dark green leather. His face held a bland, pleasant expression that spelt Trouble. Capital ‘T’ and all. 

Julian glanced forlornly at the chrono before turning back to the shelves, resuming his search of the Infirmary’s stocks. There was so little time. And as much as he loved conversing with Garak, he had things to do. Antivirals to find. It wouldn’t do to be struck down with Arethian Flu on such an important mission. Not when the fate of the universe rested upon his shoulders. Garak would have to wait. 

"I really am very busy,” he said. 

But Garak, it seemed, was not to be deterred. 

"Luckily for you, this will only take a moment."

"Another of your Cardassian epics?" Julian asked offhandedly.

His fingers slid across the shelves, tapping boxes and vials as they went. Tanizovir. No. Asinovir. No. Zanimab. No. Dideoxyazinostatovir. Absolutely not. Not unless he wanted flu _and_ a headache. Where was it? He was sure Nurse Jabara had recently restocked it. 

“I have an Enigma Tale for you, Doctor."

"I believe all Cardassian literature could fall into that category, Garak. Most of it’s not an enigma, but bloody incomprehensible."

"And yet you tackle the works I give you with such verve and enthusiasm." Out of the corner of his eye, Julian saw Garak gesture meaningfully towards the shelf. "Feeling unwell, Doctor?"

“Just taking precautions.”

Ah ha! Julian’s hand landed on his prize: a box of Arinfluvir. He took two from the packet and swallowed the pills dry with a wince. After a moment of consideration, he reached up and took a vial of Valeximab, slotting it into the hypospray with practiced ease. Well, one could never be too careful. 

“So, this book,” he said, turning to face his friend as he injected the antibody mix. Garak was stood closer than Julian had expected; too consumed in his search, he hadn’t heard his approach. He felt a flash of heat rip through him as his hand brushed against Garak’s sleeve, but willed it away. Or tried to, at least. “An Enigma Tale, you said?”

“The Flower of the Patrician,” Garak replied. “One of Shoggoth’s finest.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Garak sighed theatrically. “With an attitude like that, my dear, it’s a wonder why I even bother. By all means, if you wish to keep your horizons narrow and your not inconsiderable mind understimulated, then feel free to stick to your Shakespeare and your Dickens.”

“I just don’t see the point of a mystery where you already know the characters are guilty.”

Garak’s polite smile curled into something decidedly more wicked as he met his gaze. Julian felt his breath catch in his throat. He watched as Garak’s pupils dilated, his irises becoming mere rings of blue around dark black centres. Time seemed to pause for a second or two, and he could have sworn that Garak had stepped closer. Julian’s skin prickled with electricity. He felt his heartbeat begin to pick up pace, and an answering pulse of heat settle low in his stomach. His mouth went dry and he felt himself moving closer. 

“Ah, but guilty of what?”

“Given what I’ve learned of your world’s justice system, I’m surprised it matters.”

Julian watched as Garak opened his mouth, ready to fire back with some no-doubt scathing rejoinder when the world seemed to shift beneath them, as though jolted suddenly to the left. A wave of static rolled across the Infirmary. Julian felt it like a buzz deep in the base of his skull. 

Then Garak blinked, his face blanching. He seemed to sway on his feet. 

“Garak?” said Julian. “Garak, are you alright?”

“Yes.” Another blink. “Yes, of course. I’m perfectly fine, Doctor. No need to concern yourself.”

Julian placed a hand on Garak’s arm. He felt his friend tense at the touch. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

The chrono hit 18:42.

And then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after 06x18 Inquisition. 
> 
> Just as a quick note, I'm playing a little fast and loose with the extended universe canon. Whilst not completely compliant with _A Stitch In Time_, there are elements from the book that I have shamelessly <s>stolen</s> used for my own ends here. 
> 
> Basically, it fits if you squint. Ish.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  


>   
For admittance to the 15th Globe of Omigos, two of the following proofs of identity are required:
> 
>   * A certified J.A.N.U.S Passport Cassette with full genetic fingerprint.
>   * 4D Matrix Scan covering a minimum period of 12,000 atomic hours.
>   * A current UFP or CU light spacecraft license with holographic interface.
>   * Blood/plasma/sap/coelacanthic fluid, 2.64 mls in a borosilicate vial, red cap, with dated certificate of extraction.
>   * One of the following: 
>     * Universal credit statement covering the previous 5,000 atomic hours and a minimum of three outgoing payments.
>     * License To Dwell card from any one of the systems listed in Appendix XXii, subsection D through K. 
>     * Planetary tax statement and/or completed interstellar tax form AtX532-FJL--79Z, parts i, ii, and iv (if applicable).
>     * Utility bill. 
> 
> \-- Omigos Botanical Gardens. 2347. _Your Visit to Omigos 15_. [Leaflet].  


  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
In Julian’s dreams, it was always lunch time. They were always in the replimat, he and Garak, always eating and always talking. The topic of conversation, however, did not remain as static as the surroundings. Much like his waking life, the discussions of his dreams varied. Some days Shakespeare, others Shoggoth. Byron, Shelly, and Keats. Ghaus, Niril, and Zund. Poetry in motion, as they flitted from one argument to the next. 

Occasionally, very occasionally, they touched. A slight brush of fingers against a sleeve. An earnest press of a palm to a wrist. The awkward knocking of shoes beneath the table. And in Julian’s dreams, again, much like his real life, he often wished for something a little more substantial.

He was dreaming again. Garak was sat across the table, a cordial smile upon his reptilian features as he spoke. Garak’s hand, Julian noted, was resting upon his sleeve, his thumb tracing featherlight circles upon the bare skin of his wrist. Juilan shivered. 

“Where did you hear a thing like that, I wonder?” Garak said. He leant forward as though he were about to share some great secret. “It isn’t true, of course. And I’d have thought you far too smart to give such creedence to silly rumours. Which is all they are. Rumours. You’ve seen my paperwork; I’m just a gardner, who was lucky enough to end up here.”

Julian frowned. Odd. They’d been talking about Douglas Adams a moment ago, Garak having had some choice words to say about the Improbability Drive; Terran humour, it seemed, did not translate well. In the space between one breath and the next, it appeared Garak had segwayed onto a different topic. One Julian could not make head nor tails of. He was about to open his mouth to question the abrupt change when another voice cut across the Replimat. 

“Now, now,” it said. “You’re no more a gardner than I am an accountant.”

The Replimat was empty except for Garak and himself. Julian frowned.

“Really?” came Garak’s reply. He was looking intently at Julian, his blue eyes dancing with mirth. “Because you so do look the part.” 

“Im sorry, what?” said Julian, and with a crack, the world before him fractured.

He woke up. 

It was dark. Julian blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Slowly, his surroundings swam into view; a canopy of dense foliage seemingly tropical in nature loomed overhead, and above that, several meters up, he could just make out dark metal arches and panes of glass. The ground beneath him was hard. An exploratory sweep of his palm across the surface told him it was paved, and more than a little dusty. 

As Julian lay upon the ground, there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty: he was no longer on Deep Space Nine. 

Wherever he was, _whenever_ he was, it was hot and uncomfortably humid. The rustle of leaves filled the air as a light breeze swept through the trees. It brought with it a green, earthy smell that reminded him of the summers he had spent on Earth. 

“Let’s drop the pretense. I know you’re _Ta’kak_.”

It was that voice again. The one that had so rudely interrupted his dream. Julian stilled and listened. 

“We want you to join us.”

The voice was male, and to Julian’s ears, almost certainly Human. Two, maybe three metres away at a guess, somewhere off to the left. As silently as he could, Julian pushed himself up off the floor and rose to a crouch, listening as another voice joined the conversation. 

“Thank you, but I don’t think I’m cut out for accountancy, Mr Williams.”

Jullian’s breath caught in his throat. He recognised that voice. He would know those precise, clipped tones anywhere. 

It was Garak. 

Slowly, he crept forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the pair. The foliage that lined the path was thick, but with a careful push of branches, Julian found that he could just make out two figures between the leaves. They were stood beneath a small, wisteria-covered arbour; two inky shadows in the darkness, the shape of one entirely too familiar. Perhaps a touch slimmer than the man he knew, but no less powerful for it. His stance was the same. As was the air of nonchalance that seemed to radiate from him. 

“How long do you think we will allow you to run round causing trouble?” said Williams. “You wouldn’t be the first to join us. Rats have a tendency to flee sinking ships and we are offering you a lifeboat.”

“Trouble?” Garak replied, his tone one of disbelief. “If this is about the Edosian orchids, I can only apologise. I was unaware of the potential for cross-pollination. The hybrids have been dealt with, I assure you.”

“We know you were sent here by Enabran Tain.”

“I’m sorry, should I know who that is?” Garak replied, all careful innocence. 

Julian heard Williams sigh. He watched as the man took a step towards the Cardassian. Tall and almost painfully thin, he seemed to loom over Garak like a wraith. 

“You really ought to cooperate with us. Someone like you would be an asset to our organisation. However, just as the Union turns a blind eye to the actions of you and your organisation, so the Federation does to ours. Out of sight, out of mind is the official thinking, or so I am led to believe.” There was a pause. “We have a number of files in our possession that would make life very difficult for you back on Cardassia Prime were they to be released.” 

“Oh?”

“Join us, and I can make those files disappear. All your active aliases. The evidence of your _relationship_ to Tain. All gone.” There was the snap of fingers. “Just like that.”

A pause stretched out between the pair, the tension almost palpable. 

“It would be a tempting offer,” said Garak after a moment, “if I knew what you were talking about. All this is a touch beyond this poor gardener. Best to simply leave me to my flowers, I think.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it.”

The shadow that was Garak shrugged. “I’m sorry to be such a disappointment.”

Williams took a step back. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and turned to leave. 

“The offer still stands," he said, stalking further into the shadows. "Think about it.”

“Oh, I can assure you, I will,” Julian heard Garak breathe in reply.

He watched as Garak stepped from the deep shadow of the arbour and into the half-light cast by a string of emergency lighting that criss-crossed over the path to the left. Slimmer than his older counterpart, he looked familiar and yet so completely alien. He was dressed in a close-fitting black jumpsuit, cut to emphasise the muscles that corded across his broad chest and shoulders. A wide band of blood red fabric cinched in his waist. His hair was far longer than was strictly proper for a male Cardassian, and neatly tied back at the nape of his neck.

He was beautiful, Julian thought. Not simply because of his youth, but because of the life that seemed to crackle beneath the surface of his skin. His blue eyes sparkled with electricity. His movements spoke of a quiet excitement. Even the scent of him, thin as it was on the breeze, seemed to prickle with spice and static. It was something, Julian unhappily noted, that was missing from the exile he knew. That joy, that freedom had gone. 

A few moments passed in which Garak appeared to collect himself, before he started off along the path. Towards Julian. 

Careful not to make a sound, Julian pushed himself further into the gap he had created in the foliage. There was the brush of something spiky at his ankle, but he ignored it. He did not want to be seen by Garak; he wasn’t sure any excuse he could make for his presence would be convincing enough. No doubt the Cardassian would see right through him, just like he always did. 

At some point, Julian would have to introduce himself. If the information held by the Department of Temporal Investigations was correct, he and Garak were responsible for the destruction of this world. He highly doubted he could avoid the Cardassian until the moment of the explosion, a few days hence. His luck was never that good. However, he thought first contact ought to be conducted under less suspicious circumstances than the ones he currently found himself in.

The man before him was dangerous. Fresh-faced and still under the thumb of Tain. It wouldn’t do to forget that. 

Julian held his breath as Garak approached. The seconds seemed to slow to a halt as he passed Julian’s hiding place. His footfalls were light, cat-like. One, two, barely making a sound as his shoes connected with the paving slabs. 

Then Garak stopped. He was only inches away from Julian’s hiding place. A glance to the right, and he would be seen. Julian swallowed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest; it seemed so loud that he was sure it had given him away, that Garak could hear it. 

“What are you doing here?”

Julian felt his heart skip a beat. 

It was over. He’d been caught. A thousand possible excuses flooded Julian’s panicking mind, none of them plausible. He would simply have to face Garak and hope for mercy. He drew in a deep breath, ready to step forward when Garak knelt down, his back towards Julian. He watched as the Cardassian reached into the flowerbed, pulling a small, silver trowel from the black bag that hung about his shoulders. 

“Now, my dear, you shouldn’t be here at all,” Garak said softly. 

Julian blinked. The sound of metal against earth filled the air as Garak began to dig. From his position in the leaves, Julian could see Garak lever a small, white plant from the ground. It was the size of a tricorder, with a rosette of ghostly leaves from which a single, long stem rose. Orchid-like, the top of the stem was decorated with clusters of strange star-shaped flowers, pollen sprinkled across their petals where the anthers had been knocked. The petals looked almost black in the darkness, like splotches of ink against bright white foliage.

Plant freed, Garak pulled a small, clear pot from his bag. With a practiced flourish, he deposited the plant into the waiting pot, ensuring its tangle of roots remained undamaged. 

“There,” he murmured softly. “That wasn’t so bad. Now let’s find you a better home.”

And with that, Garak stepped swiftly away, disappearing down the path and out of sight in a matter of seconds. 

Jullian let out the breath that he had been holding. That had been entirely too close for comfort. He placed a hand over his chest in a vain effort to soothe his pounding heart. Counting slowly to three, he stepped from his position in the bushes and made his way down the path, following Garak’s footsteps.  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
The Terran Hothouse of Omigos 15 was the largest of its kind in the known galaxy. Or so one of the information points Julian passed claimed. Built two centuries previously to ancient Earth specifications, it housed a number of rare tropical species not only from Earth, but a wide variety of Alpha Quadrant planets. Wrought-iron beams arched gracefully overhead, the glass panels between them tinted a beautiful green. A faithful rendering of the Palm House at Earth’s Kew Gardens, only on a far larger scale, it stood at the northernmost point of Omigos 15. A palace of crystal that glinted in the starlight. 

It was surrounded by a ring of temperate woodland. Terran oaks, Bajoran mobas, and J’naii menellans rose in concentric circles from the leaf-covered ground, the tangle of their roots woven together like a tapestry. Low groundcover, a mix of reds and purples and blues, sprawled between the trees. Night-flowering orchids bloomed beneath the canopy, petals all ghostly pastels. 

As Julian emerged from the hothouse and into the cooler night air of the globe proper, he could smell their heady scent upon the breeze. 

“Out a little late, aren’t we?”

“I’m sorry?” said Julian, startled.

He turned on his heel, and watched as Garak materialised from the shadows of a moba tree. Julian felt his stomach lurch as the Cardassian stalked slowly towards him, a predatory look in his icy blue eyes. 

“I said, it’s a little late in the evening to be taking a stroll. Beautiful by starlight as the Terran Hothouse is, it’s much more usual to take a tour during daylight hours.” Garak smiled. “When it isn’t closed to visitors.”

Julian swallowed and said, “I’m not a visitor.”

“Oh? Forgive me, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you on the globe before.” 

Garak gave him a slow look up and down. There was an unexpected heat to his gaze that threatened to make Julian blush. He was thankful he had changed out of his Starfleet uniform back on Deep Space Nine; his civilian dress would at least save him from one awkward explanation 

“A... face as handsome as yours?” Garak continued, taking another step forward. “I’m certain I would remember it.”

“I - er - I,” he stuttered, thrown off guard by the boldness of Garak’s advance. The blush that rose from his collar was now less of a threat and more of a reality. Unthinking, he thrust out a hand in greeting. “ I’m Dr Jal. Sadiq Jal. I’m with the Medical Unit. I arrived this afternoon.”

There was the slightest moment of hesitation before Garak took it. The slide of cool scales against Julian’s skin felt better than it had any right to. It was only as Garak’s thumb drifted across the back of his hand that he remembered the gesture didn’t carry quite the same connotations for a Cardassian. It was decidedly more _intimate_. He felt the blush deepen. 

Julian scolded himself. He should know better than to flirt with Garak, unintentionally or not. Not here. Not now. This was not the friendly tailor with whom he had shared lunches and literature for the better part of half a decade. That man was on Deep Space Nine, both years and lightyears away. 

This was Omigos 15, and the man before him was not his friend. 

“Well, my dear Dr Jal, that goes someway to explaining what you’re doing here.” Garak tightened his grip upon Julian’s hand. The strength of it was startling. “But not what you’re doing here specifically.”

Garak took half a step closer, his face a mask of politeness, eyes sharp. Despite being the taller of the two, Julian felt no less intimidated. He was under no illusion; Garak would be able to drop him like a stone, should he so choose. He had been on the receiving end of such treatment before, back when Garak’s implant had malfunctioned. The man that had tackled him to the floor with ease had been twenty years older than the one in front of him, and decidedly more sedentary; Julian would have no chance now. 

“I just fancied a walk,” Julian said as casually as he could. He squared his chin. “I wasn’t aware it was forbidden.”

Blue eyes bored into hazel ones. Julian felt as though Garak could see right into his mind, see the incriminating thoughts that buzzed incessantly in his skull. With every inch of willpower he could muster, he kept his gaze locked on Garak’s, his expression neutral. 

Suddenly, Garak smiled. 

“Oh, it isn’t forbidden,” he said, releasing Julian’s hand. “Just a little unusual.”

Julian fought the urge to flee, thrusting his hands deeply into his pockets with an air of feigned nonchalance, and said, “Well, perhaps I’m a little unusual.”

“Perhaps.” Garak's smile widened, but did not reach his eyes. They remained wide and hot and predatory. “Tell me, Doctor, did you see anything interesting on your little walk?”

“Not until now,” he said, and immediately knew it was the wrong answer. 

“Oh?” said Garak, all affected innocence. 

He was flirting again, and Garak was encouraging him. He had no idea what game Garak was playing, but he had to stop this. Deflect Garak’s attention elsewhere before he made an error. Put him on the backfoot. 

“You know, I could always ask you the same question, Mr—?”

“Neic,” Garak helpfully supplied.

“Well, Mr Neic, what brings you here this evening? Nothing _unusual_, I hope.” 

To his credit, Garak didn’t even blink. 

“I work here. I’m a gardner. I’d have thought the tools of my trade would have given it away,” he said, gesturing at the black bag that hung from his shoulder. “Are all humans so dreadfully unobservant as yourself?”

Julian ignored the jab. “I wasn’t aware there was a night shift.”

“Evil never sleeps, my dear Dr Jal. And neither do weeds.”

“I’m sure Omigos 15 is lucky to count such a dedicated individual amongst its staff.”

“So I would hope,” said Garak. 

They were still stood entirely too close to one another. So close that Julian felt as though he were surrounded by the scent of him, the heady aroma of spice and sweet toeic oil pushing the oxygen away, leaving him lightheaded. Again, so familiar, and yet so different. 

Julian felt his breath catch in his throat as Garak’s gaze flickered to his lips. It was unsubtle, as was much with this version of his friend. The Garak he knew would never have been so direct. And yet, Julian felt his skin prickle with the same heat as it did when they argued; when Garak leaned across the Replimat table and told him lie after bold-faced lie; when their hands brushed, scales against skin.

Time seemed to pause for a second or two, in which he could have sworn Garak had moved closer still. An odd sort of tension settled low in Julian’s belly. He swallowed loudly. His heart was beating as fast as it had back in the Terran Hothouse, only now, instead of fearing discovery, he felt an entirely different sort of fear. 

Then Garak blinked and, just like that, the moment was broken. Gone, almost as though it had never been. 

“It’s getting late, Doctor,” said Garak, his attention now fixed somewhere to the right of Julian’s shoulder.

Resisting the urge to turn, he said, “Yes. Quite right. I think I ought to get back to my quarters. First day tomorrow. Really ought to be bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

He needed to get away from Garak. Clearly, he couldn’t trust himself to remain sensible around the man. Julian took a deep breath. It would be a lie to say something similar hadn’t happened between them back on Deep Space Nine. Indeed, moments like this had become somewhat of a common occurrence, the only difference between then and now being Garak’s response. Not quite so eager, more measured and understated. 

Guarded.

Briefly, embarrassingly, Julian wondered if this was how the Garak he knew saw him. Young and inexperienced, with all the subtlety of a brick. 

“Let me escort you home, Doctor,” said Garak, his focus returning to Julian, his face a mask of amiability, 

Julian frowned. No. Absolutely not. For a start, he didn’t even know where ‘home’ was. 

“It’s hardly necessary,” he said, the panic making it a touch sharper than he had intended. 

But Garak was not to be deterred. He pressed a hand to the small of Julian’s back, pushing him gently along the path. 

“I insist.”


	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  


>   
<s>My dearest Julian, </s>
> 
> <s>You asked me once if I knew of Omigos. It is difficult to say anything of the place without saying too much, you see: an attempt at explanation could lead to fractures in the space-time continuum, or at the very least, a headache. And no, I do not over exaggerate.</s>
> 
> <s>I know of Omigos. Of the beautiful orbs that circled Oclid Minor like pearls on a string. I worked there once, so very long ago now, tending to the flowers that grew in the Glasshouses on Omigos 15. Rare flora, not all of which was Cardassian in origin. It was a job that gave me no small amount of pleasure, not least for the people I met in my time there.</s>
> 
> <s>But perhaps here I sail too close to the wind. Tell me, my dear Doctor, can you hear it whispering?</s>
> 
> FAO: Dr. Bashir.  
Omigos is long gone, Doctor. If you wish to learn more, might I be so bold as to suggest opening a history book?  
Garak.  


  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
Julian slept fitfully. He woke around First Quarter, soft golden light pouring in through the window above his bed. His first shift at the Medical Unit wouldn’t begin for another two hours; he was too restless to return to his bed. The events of the previous night played on an almost continuous loop in his mind. The confrontation between Garak and Agent Williams. The confrontation between Garak and himself.

Perching upon the edge of his mattress, back against the cool plaster of the wall, Julian began to mull things over. 

The walk to his rooms had been blessedly uneventful. He and Garak had passed the time in idle conversation, neither touching on the subject of the other’s presence in the Terran Hothouse. Thankfully, Garak had taken his confusion regarding the exact whereabouts of his rooms as more evidence of Human inferiority. Cardassians, he had told him with no small amount of pride, had excellent memories, and if he would care to follow him, he would happily direct him home. 

The Garak of this time period, it seemed to Julian, was nowhere near as skilled a manipulator as the one of his own. Though he had never managed to get an answer from Garak regarding his exact age, truthful or otherwise, Julian suspected that the man was somewhere around fifty. That would make the Garak of this time period in his late teens, perhaps early twenties. Green, at any rate. If this wasn’t Garak’s first mission for the Obsidian Order, then Julian would put latinum on it being either his second or third. And already he’d been rumbled by Section 31. That had to have been a blow to the Cardassian’s ego, Julian thought, darkly amused. 

“Practice makes perfect, I suppose” he said to himself. Then Julian thought about the lies Garak had told him as he had lain dying in the Infirmary, the implant in his head little more than junk. Thought about four men called Elim, all of them a lie in one way or another, and added, “Perhaps a little too perfect.”

He shook his head. 

Thinking back to the conversation he had overheard, he remembered Agent Williams had mentioned his links to Tain. 

Enabran Tain, father of Elim Garak, and head of the Obsidian Order. 

Julian paused and scratched his face in thought; his cheeks were rough with stubble. 

That Tain had fathered Garak was not well known on Cardassia. Julian had questioned Garak about it in his usual clumsy way after their escape from Internment Camp 371. Though his friend had volunteered little in the way of information, he had told Julian that lying was hereditary. That a propensity for deception had served his father as well as it had served him. 

“We all follow in the footsteps of our fathers, Doctor,” he had said. “Whether acknowledged or otherwise.”

Truth or lie, Julian had thought it just as revealing a statement then as he did now. Such an attitude explained Garak’s fondness for the repetitive epic. Life imitating art in all its impenetrable, inescapable glory. 

Julian sighed. He fingered the hem of his nightshirt. It seemed likely that some of the information Section 31 held on Garak regarded the question of his paternity. Which also, now that he thought more about it, explained why Williams had given Garak the option to turn, to work for them as a double-agent, rather than simply whisking him away to some distant Thirty-One facility, never to be seen again. No, Garak was useful to them. His relationship to Tain was useful to them. 

Which led to another question: was Tain even head of the Obsidian Order during this time period? 

Julian didn’t know for certain. It made more sense, he thought, if Tain was not. If the Order was currently in a state of internal turmoil regarding its successor, it would make Garak an incredibly valuable asset to anyone who sought to destabilise the power behind the Cardassian Union. 

Release of Garak’s parentage to the Cardassian public, or at the very least certain important individuals within that category, could spell disaster for Tain and his ambitions. Quite how, Julian didn’t know. But given that the minutiae of their relationship had remained secret to all but a chosen few even after Tain’s death, Julian knew the reason had to be an important one. 

It was a win-win for Section 31, and by proxy, Federation interests. The Obsidian Order were little more than puppets, with Section 31 itching to pull their strings. 

Julian sighed. As interesting as this all was, it was a distraction from his main objective: the destruction of the space station. 

He glanced at the chrono. Two days. A knot of anxiety curled in his stomach; it was so little time. And with his duties at the Medical Unit, it would feel like even less. 

He had to get back into the Terran Hothouse. Scheduled to work the day shift, Julian realised that simply slipping in during opening hours would likely be an impossibility. Another excursion after dark would look suspicious. Garak had already caught him once; given that Omigos 15 also seemed to be harbouring at least one Section 31 operative, Williams (possibly two, depending on Sloan), the odds of being found somewhere he shouldn’t were higher than he’d have liked. 

37.6% higher, to be precise, his brain helpfully supplied. 

Whilst he had no doubt that neither the Section 31 nor the Obsidian Order operatives would be remotely aware of his true intentions regarding Omigos 15 and the destruction thereof, there was the distinct possibility that his exploration of the Terran Hothouse could be mistaken for subterfuge. Finding himself accidentally embroiled in whatever game the two agencies were playing was not appealing. 

Staying away from Garak, however, would be difficult. As would Sloan, he thought, remembering the statement he had given to the Federation—one of the only pieces of eyewitness testimony that had not been classified or redacted into illegibility. 

Sloan had seen Julian and Garak in the Hothouse shortly before the explosion. 

No. Staying away from the pair of them would be impossible, if history played out as Agent Brown had said. If it played out as it was supposed to. 

Julian had to admit, seeing Garak again had more than a little appeal. He felt drawn to him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. A shadow of his friend, of the man who argued with him over lunch and literature; the man who shared an occasional truth in amongst the lies; the man who haunted his dreams. 

It was too tempting. _He_ was too tempting. 

The look in Garak’s eyes the previous evening had been almost ravenous. Julian shivered at the memory; a light blush dusted his cheeks, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled to attention. He couldn’t deny that it was more than a little thrilling to have Garak’s full attention. Thrilling and terrifying. 

This version of Garak was clearly attracted to him. It was something he could use to his advantage, Julian thought. The Garak of now might not be a master of manipulation, but the one of Julian’s time was—Julian fancied he had learned a thing or two of the art himself.

Perhaps that was how he would lure Garak into the Hothouse? How he would gain his cooperation? He would seduce him, just like he did in his dreams. 

Julian thought not. Such a strategy would be far too dangerous to seriously contemplate. His face was an open book—or so Garak had often told him—and intentionally getting closer to a man who could see through him as though he were made of glass seemed the height of folly. 

As for Sloan, the other thorn in his side, he had yet to meet the man. Well, the man of this time period. He would be relatively young, too. Younger than Julian, at the very least. Not long out of the Academy. Perhaps not yet a member of Section 31.

He could only hope. 

Julian’s stomach rumbled. He contemplated the replicator sat in the far corner of his spartan quarters, before remembering a reference to a canteen he had seen in the mission brief. Though he couldn’t guarantee the food there would not be replicated either, it would give him the perfect opportunity to observe more of Omigos 15 and its workers. See the lie of the land, so to speak.

Pulling on his medical uniform—a pair of slim-fitting white overalls and matching jacket that would no doubt have sent the Garak he knew into a fit of apoplexy—Julian searched the pockets of yesterday’s discarded trousers for the PADD Agent Brown had given him, hoping to suss out the canteen’s location from the station maps. However, he found only Garak’s book: The Flower of the Patrician. 

Odd. He could have sworn the PADD had been in his pocket. And that the book had never left Garak’s hands. 

Resigning himself to a lonely breakfast of replicated raktajino and toast, Julian sat down upon his bed and began to read. The book, it appeared, was about the life of a young woman named Rikba Ilnal. A scientist of some as yet unknown flavour, she had been tasked with ensuring the safe transport of one of Cardassia Prime’s most prized botanical specimens: the Lakatian Heliconia. 

The book contained several beautiful illustrations, both of the heliconia and the Cardassian woodland in which it had once made its home. It was like nothing Julian had ever seen: brilliantly white from root to tip, its fan-like leaves spiraled up from a central point, its roots almost bare, and its star-shaped flowers burst forth from the base like the crackle of a firework. Beautiful, in a strange way, so different from the greens and browns of the plants that surrounded it. 

Vanishingly rare, its native forests having turned to crumbling dust, the heliconia was to be taken to three new worlds in the hope that it would thrive. To the plains of Kestian, a colony world in the Doltec system; to the great Library of neutral Galru, where anything could be kept for a price; and to the newly discovered Omigos system, its 15th orb home to a garden beyond anything the likes of which the Alpha Quadrant had seen before. 

Julian frowned at the mention of Omigos 15. Strange that Garak should have chosen to give him this book. Whilst it had not been the first of Shoggoth’s novels to mention the orb, he remembered, the Cardassian couldn’t have known that less than five minutes after receiving it, Julian would find himself stood within the same warm, verdant gardens as the novel’s protagonist. And yet, the coincidence made him feel uneasy. As though there was something important he had missed. Was Garak trying to tell him something? Had he remembered meeting Julian here on Omigos 15? Did he remember the explosion? Julian?

No, he thought not. Time could be tricky in that regard: how could one remember something that had yet to happen? Yes, to Garak, these events had taken place in the past, but to Julian they had yet to occur. His future, Garak’s past, their present; all would occur, were occuring, had occurred at the same time. 

Now. 

If Julian had retained anything from his temporal mechanics module at Starfleet Academy, it was that Garak’s memories of the event would be fuzzy, indistinct. Dreamlike, until they snapped into place upon Julian’s return, ‘would’ becoming ‘had’ as events slipped back into their more typical linear fashion. One minute following the next once more. 

It had to be a coincidence. 

Still, it was not a comfortable one. Swallowing the last dregs of the raktajino, Julian snapped the book closed and tucked it into his pocket. He glanced at the chrono on the bedside table. It was time to head over to the Medical Unit. His first, or alternatively penultimate, day of work awaited him.  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
Doctor Mosh Zarr was both extraordinarily tall and extraordinarily fat. He was also extraordinarily talkative.

“Dr Jal,” he said, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. It’s so very kind of you to come to our aid here on Omigos 15. As I’m sure you’re aware, Sadiq—May I call you Sadiq?” At Julian’s nod, he continued, “As I’m sure you’re aware, Sadiq, most of the Medical Team here have been struck by a nasty bout of Arethian flu. Terrible business. Left us rather short-staffed, as I’m sure you can imagine. During Isk’aVan, too! It’s one of the busiest times of the year; we receive over ten thousand visitors per week, and not all of them Retellian, either. To lose half our staff, why, it’s a crisis of epic proportions!” 

Bolian and somewhere around his mid-sixties, Dr Zarr sat behind a large metal desk, blue fingers laced where they rested upon his large gut. He gave Julian a wide, friendly smile and nodded towards the security badge set upon the table. . 

Julian picked it up and attached it to the front of his overalls. 

“I must say, Sadiq, I am surprised I didn’t see you last night. Security informed me that the USS McClintock docked at the start of Fourth Quarter. Late, yes, but not too late. ‘Mosh,’ I said to myself, ‘best stay up in case Sadiq wants a word’. Can’t say I was overly successful, mind you. One too many nips of the old tonic water, I think. Good thing you didn’t turn up as expected!” Zarr paused for a moment, though not quite long enough for Julian to get a word in before continuing, “Though after the journey you had, I imagine the only thing on your mind was your bed. Interstellar travel can be so draining, don’t you think?”

“Er, yes,” said Julian, feeling almost flattened by the force of the Bolian’s personality. “It was quite a long trip.”

“All the way from the opposite edge of the Beta Quadrant to here—long, Saddiq, is not the word! I, myself, thought that the USS McClintock was still out for repairs back in Terran space, but quite clearly Starfleet moves faster than most. Sol, Var’stt, Vulcan, Sorz; off you go, pinging around the galaxy like a game of Vrash Ball. Must be terribly exciting. Though, and stop me if this is at all a sensitive topic, I am curious as to what made you give up Federation life. Six years on the USS McClintock, three on USS Fesmire, Salutatorian of your graduating year. All supremely impressive, Sadiq. And yet you’ve given it all up to come and work here. Why?”

Julian blinked. He had arrived at Dr Zarr’s office fully expecting the third degree. What made you come to Omigos 15? Do you know anything about manning a civilian medical centre? What exactly did you do on USS McClintock? Why didn’t anyone see you arrive? Who are you? 

He’d prepared his answers meticulously. And yet, the way the Bolian spoke, as if Julian were a dear friend rather than complete stranger, threw him off guard. His carefully prepared backstory evaporated from his mind, and he panicked, stumbling over his answer. 

“O-Omigos 15 is the preeminent botanical research institution in the galaxy,” he said, the words spilling out of his mouth in a tumble. “It’s not as if I, er, as if I’ve given up Starfleet for a job at the local garden centre, Dr Zarr.”

“About that,” said Zarr, his tone turning conspiratorial. “Given the tensions that plague our little section of space, I think it would be best if we kept the details of your former employment under our hats, so to speak.” He rubbed a blue hand across his bald head. “We do have a Cardassian staff member on Omigos 15.”

“Yes, Mr Neic. We’ve met,” Julian said. 

“Ah. Interesting man.” Zarr frowned. “A touch tempramental. You know how patriotic Cardassians can be. Lovely people, I’m sure, but I’d prefer not to stoke any latent fires.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Good.” Mosh beamed at Julian across the desk. He clapped his hands together loudly and said, “You still haven’t answered my question, Sadiq! What made you choose Omigos 15? We are the preeminent botanical research institution, yes. Not medical institution. I’m afraid what we do here is less exciting than the average General Practice Surgery.” 

“Perhaps I just like plants?” 

Julian winced, cursing internally. It was an idiotic thing to say, even for him. Dr Zarr, however, didn’t appear to have noticed. He continued on as before, steamrolling over Julian in a rather one-sided attempt at friendly conversation.

“That’s not to say that we don’t conduct our own research here. Far from it,” said Zarr, gesturing at the interactive display on the far wall. Scientific posters detailing a myriad of recent discoveries flickered across the screen, cycling from one research topic to the next in a seemingly endless loop. “Why recently, our dear Dr Vathek, whose petite size six’s you’ll be so charitably filling, managed to isolate the compound in _Reptilodendron mutinusaster_ responsible for curing impotence in Cardassian males. Ironic, in a way, that it should come from that particular plant species.” Zarr gave a huff of amusement. “Not, of course, that I am expecting you to continue her research. Whilst the globe is a place of peace and harmony between all alpha quadrant species, sentient or otherwise, I am not blind to the conflicts that rage beyond these glass walls. I imagine that as a Federation-trained Doctor, your knowledge of Cardassian physiology is somewhat limited.”

“You could put it that way,” Julian agreed. 

Julain’s rather basic grasp of Cardassian anatomy was based on a personal study of one, and a highly reluctant one, at that. He had little doubt that Garak would be any more amenable to examination now than he had been on Deep Space Nine. And as far as topics went, the intricacies of Cardassian reproductive physiology was not something he wanted to broach with Garak. At least, not in this particular setting... 

“Whilst several members of my staff would be only too delighted to fill in the gaps in your knowledge,” Zarr continued, “I think you would be best suited elsewhere for the time being. Somewhere that doesn’t require you to play catch-up, eh, Sadiq?” He fiddled with the PADD on his desk, squinting down at the screen. “You’ll be working Alpha Shift. Poor Frankie could do with an extra set of hands, what with most of the team currently out of action. Shouldn’t be too taxing for a man of your skill and experience, wouldn't you say?”

The Bolian looked at the doctor expectantly. Julian blinked stupidly at the sudden silence, caught off guard not by the question, but by the fact that Zarr seemed interested in the answer. 

“Er, yes. Thank you, Dr Zarr,” he said, “I’m looking forward to it already.”

Zarr beamed. 

“Don’t thank me just yet. We’ve got rather a lot of paperwork to get through before I can let you loose!” Bolian replied. “And, please, call me Mosh.”  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
The Head of Alpha-Shift was middle-aged and Human, and went by the name of Frankie Jones. Ex-Federation, their twenties had been spent at Scientific Outpost μ36717 studying epigenetics, before transferring to Starfleet Medical.

“Just fancied a change of pace, you know?” Frankie had said, sipping tea from a travel mug as they walked. “Started as a sabbatical, but here I am, ten years later with my own team. A team of three, sure, but three is better than none!”

Mindful of his earlier conversation with Dr Zarr, Julian decided to steer the conversation away from Starfleet before Frankie began asking uncomfortable questions about his own past. Zarr had suggested a post-doc at a Rigelian Research Station as a cover, and Julian was all too happy to acquiesce. Permanent research positions were few and far between, and the story the Bolian had suggested was not an unusual one. 

Still, it was a complication he could have done without. The lies were all beginning to pile up on top of one another; it wouldn’t be long before he made a mistake. 

It was best not to tempt fate, he thought. 

“What’s it like, working for Dr Zarr?” Julian asked, changing the subject. 

“Ach, Mosh is alright once you get used to him.”

The Vulcan Conservatory stood around a mile away from the Medical Unit, just at the edge of a patchwork of replica Qo’noS pools that stretched across the western hemisphere. Hot and dry, it was home to a number of Vulcan species. Kir ocotillos, with spiky red inflorescence, stretched up towards the glass ceiling; ShiKahr yuccas and cacti sprung from rocky crevices and stone; desert lilies formed carpets of yellow and green, their leathery leaves creeping across the dust. Occasionally, Julian spotted a specimen from Earth. 

Puzzled, he said, “I thought this was the Vulcan Conservatory. I’m pretty sure that’s a Joshua tree.”

“The Vulcan part just refers to the architecture,” said Frankie, “same as the Terran Hothouse and the Cardassian Glasshouse.”

“Ah.”

“Same for all five of them. The sixth one’s a bit different. It’s where the laboratories are.” Frankie pointed over Julian’s shoulder, towards what looked like a large shard of crystal bursting from the treetops. “Built by the Kelwicani, or so the archeology lot tell me. The same people who made the globes.”

“Kelwicani?”

“Used to live on the next planet out, oh, several millennia ago. Long before even our mammalian ancestors existed. Fled when the star died, and no one's any the wiser what happened after that. The Federation sent a few archeological teams down to the surface a while back, not long after they’d discovered this place, and found pretty much bugger all apart from a few scraps of text and crumbling buildings.”

Julian nodded, making a mental note to acquire some sort of guidebook. 

There were three members of staff working in the Vulcan Conservatory that morning. Twenty minutes was all it took to locate and vaccinate them, with Julian giving each a quick once over before sending them on their way. The Vre’eTol virus had been brought in with a shipment of Romulan lilies. Unusual in that it could be carried and transmitted by both animal and plant species alike, it had decimated several of the globe’s rarer carnivorous plant populations. Whilst asymptomatic in the majority of humanoid species, vaccination of the globe’s workers would prevent the spread to more vulnerable targets. 

As Julian and Frankie made their way out into the western hemisphere, the Bajoran grove their destination, Julian heard his name called from a distance. He stopped, searching for the source of the voice and saw Garak cutting swiftly through the rosebeds to his left. One arm was curled protectively against his chest. 

Of course it was Garak. Who else would it be? No-one else save Mosh and Frankie knew his name. Julian frowned. It seemed like quite the coincidence; Garak injured just as Julian happened to pass by. 

It was a good twenty-minute walk back to the Medical Unit. He could call for for transport—and the fact that Garak hadn’t already done so himself seemed more than a little suspicious—but given he had his med-kit with him, Julian saw little point. That Garak was up and walking meant whatever had happened, it was unlikely to be serious enough to require specialist treatment. Probably little more than a flesh wound or broken bone, given the way Garak cradled his arm. 

He motioned to Frankie to continue to the grove without him. Julian did not want an audience. Whatever Garak had done to himself, and the odds that Garak had done it to himself were looking better by the second, he had specifically sought out Julian to fix it. Knowing Garak as he did, there were clearly ulterior motives at work. 

What they were, however, currently eluded him. 

Julian guided Garak into the nearest building: a small service hut that stood beside the eastern wall of the Vulcan Conservatory. Inside, Julian found an untidy but thankfully empty breakroom. Clearing a pile dark green overalls from two of the chairs, he gestured for Garak to take a seat. 

"So, Mr Neic,” he said, noting with dismay the bloodstain upon the makeshift bandage. “What seems to be the trouble?"

Garak looked a little pale. Probably shock, Julian thought. Still, whatever Garak had done, it hadn’t seemed to put much of a damper on his spirits. The same chaotic energy Julian had observed the previous evening swirled around him.

"I'm afraid I've had rather a nasty fight with a section of Andorian ivy. Casualties on both sides, but I like to think that I came off the victor." Garak gave Julian a tight smile as he began to unwind the make-shift bandage. "And it's just Neic. Plain and simple Neic."

"Alright, plain and simple Neic," Julian said, remembering an earlier conversation. Or rather, a later one. "If you would mind showing me the damage?"

Garak presented his left hand to the doctor; a long slice ran down the back of it, stretching from knuckle to wrist. Nasty, but nothing a once over with the dermal regenerator couldn’t cure. He wondered, briefly, whether to offer Garak painkillers—whilst Julian knew the implant in Garak’s head would have taken away much of the sting, Garak didn’t know that he knew. 

"Looks like you were in quite the battle," Julian said, inspecting the injury.

"You should see my opponent."

He probed the wound a little less gently than he otherwise would have done, watching Garak’s reaction with interest. He heard the Cardassian’s breath catch, noted the slight darkening of the scales on the ridges of his neck.

The implant was fully functional, then. 

“That hurt?” Julian said, knowing full well it didn’t.

“A little,” Garak lied. “I would appreciate it, Doctor, if you were a little more gentle with your probing.”

Like hell he would, Julian thought. 

“In that case, you might want a dose of terakine before I zip that back up.” 

“No thank you, Doctor. I find that terakine gives me a headache, and I have a lot of work to do this afternoon. Pruning is already painful enough as it is, thank you very much.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I am.”

Julian reached down into his med-kit, pulling from it the dermal regenerator. Slowly, he began to run the instrument back and forth across Garak’s split scales, watching as they began to knit themselves together. He steadfastly ignored the way Garak tensed, just as he ignored the Cardassian’s increasingly rapid breathing. To anyone else, they would have been signs of pain. Julian, however, knew better. 

What was Garak’s game? Injuring himself simply to tease some sexual thrill from the globe’s newest doctor was a little twisted, even for Garak. No, this was just a bonus. Garak wanted something. A rehash of the previous night’s questioning, perhaps? Evidence that Julian had overheard something he shouldn’t have? 

The only way to find out would be to distract him and hope something slipped. Play on the prejudices of his species, the arrogance of perceived Cardassian superiority. He had to make Garak believe he was nothing more than a naive young Human, too unobservant, too _trusting_ to be any sort of threat. Compassion was a good a weapon as deceit when so completely anathema to the enemy. 

He pulled the split scales near Garak’s wrist tight, hoping the spike of pleasure caused by the pain would throw the Cardassian off guard. Lower his defences enough for Julian to probe his motivations. 

Garak gasped. 

“Sorry,” said Julian. “The next bit’s going to be quite painful. Unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

“Quite alright, Doctor,” Garak replied. “I’m sure I’ll survive the ordeal.”

Julian schooled his features into a look of sympathy. His face was an open book; unfortunately for Garak, it was also a work of complete fiction. 

"Still,” he said with his best physician’s smile, “perhaps a bit of distraction is in order. I'm afraid I'm not overly familiar with Andorian ivy. Bit of a handful, is it?"

"Nasty stuff. Very beautiful, but with quite the set claws. It's my own fault; I left my gauntlets back in the Terran Hothouse, and didn't much fancy the trip across the hemisphere to retrieve them. More fool me." Garak gave a brief, self-deprecating smile, then said, “But one doens’t like to dwell on one’s own inadequacies. So tell me, Doctor, have you been to Omigos 15 before?”

“No. First time,” Julian said, pressing his thumb hard against Garak’s knuckles under the guise of re-aligning the tear. 

Garak swallowed, his eyes dropping briefly to their joined hands before rising back to Julian’s face. His pupils were a deep black, wider than usual, the blue of his irises little more than a thin ring. There was heat there, too. 

Hands, Julian knew, held a position of particular importance in Cardassian courtship. The press of palms the equivalent of a kiss on the cheek; the twining of fingers a passionate embrace; the stroke of a thumb over knuckles as indecently provocative as the slide of a tongue across fevered skin. 

It was something Julian had learnt from the books Garak had given him. There were hints, here and there, and a focus on fingers and palms that occasionally bordered on the obsessive. The knowledge of such alien intimacies, once obtained, had expanded his own significantly; he thought often of Garak’s hands. Skillful and expressive. Covered in grey scales, with nails clipped short and neat. He thought of how the Cardassian used them to punctuate his points, give emphasis to his arguments. He thought, too, though only when alone, of what they might feel like against his skin. Of what points they would punctuate then. 

The hands of Julian’s memory held only a passing resemblance to those he held now. Scaled, yes, and similarly expressive. But they differed in one crucial aspect: the nails. The Garak that sat in front of him, the Garak of burning eyes and youthful mask of polite equanimity, had what could only be described as claws. Long, sharp, painted black. 

Strange, that he hadn’t noticed the difference before, back in the woodland by the Hothouse, when he had offered Garak his hand in greeting, but given something else entirely. He could only blame it on the darkness. Or the fear. 

“And what do you think of the place?” said Garak, drawing him from his thoughts.

“To be quite honest, I’ve seen so little of it I can hardly form an opinion,” said Julian, fingers pinching, probing.

The wound was almost sealed. A few more seconds and Julian would have to let go of Garak’s hand, and with it his plan of attack. He would have to find a different way to needle the Cardassian into revealing something useful. 

“You’ve seen the Hothouse,” Garak said with the slightest hint of accusation, his control seemingly beginning to slip. “And no doubt the replica Qo’noS pools on your way here from the Medical Unit. You were walking through a small slice of Cardassia Prime’s Ba’aten Peninsula when I found you. Surely you’ve seen enough to cast some sort of judgement?” He gave Julian a sideways glance. “Be bold, my dear Doctor.”

Wound healed, Julian let Garak’s hand slip from his and placed the dermal regenerator back in his bag. 

Garak was on edge, Julian was satisfied to note. He practically vibrated with tension. Julian had seen the look in Garak’s eyes before; it was the same one that sharpened the gaze of his older self when they argued over literature. 

The same look that usually preceded a mistake. 

Suddenly, he knew his next plan of attack. 

With a look of innocent wonder, he said, “It… Well, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

And watched as the shot hit its mark. 

“Hmm,” said Garak, a dangerous smile creeping across his lips. “A poor effort, but as we’ve only just met, I’ll resist the temptation to press the issue lest it put a dent in our burgeoning friendship.”

Julian snorted. “How amicable of you.”

“It is, isn’t it? I can only think it’s down to the lingering gratitude I have towards you for fixing my hand.”

“It’s my job to fix the injured, Mr Neic.”

Garak’s nostrils flared. “Well, in that case, I take back everything I said and demand you pass judgement on our little garden immediately. I’m interested to hear your thoughts on the Hothouse in particular. Terran it may be, but it is my job to fix the inadequate.”

Julian paused for a moment, as though considering his answer, then said, “Too many weeds.” 

To his surprise, Garak laughed. 

“Bold words, Dr Jal.” 

“Didn’t you just ask me to be bold, Mr Neic?” 

Garak gave sarcastic little nod. “Are Humans always this compliant?”

“Are Cardassians always this demanding?” Julian countered.

“Only when our questions remain so rudely unanswered.” Garak grinned, his teeth gleaming like those of a wolf. “Is Terran education really so lacking? Or is the complete absence of anything approaching decent manners merely a Starfleet trait?”

And there it was: his first mistake. So Garak knew Dr Jal had been a member of Starfleet. Interesting. Julian wondered where the Cardasian had picked up that little tidbit of information. Who he had been talking to. 

“Former Starfleet,” Julian corrected. 

“Ah yes, moved on to bigger and better things, haven’t we?” said Garak. “What alure does frontier medicine truly hold when compared to that of lowly general practice? I am sure the prospect of curing scraped knees and headaches and common colds holds a thrill like no other. Still, one always has one’s hobbies. Diversions.” 

And another in swift succession. Even without Julian’s cognitive enhancements, it wouldn’t have taken him much to put two and two together: Garak suspected he was working for Section 31. Clever of him, Julian had to admit, to piece it all together like that. Utterly incorrect, but clever. 

It also meant, Julian noted with growing dismay, that Garak was aware of exactly what Julian had been doing in the Terran Hothouse the previous evening. 

He would have to tread very carefully. 

He opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by the chirp of the communication device inside his security badge.

_/// Dr Jal. Come in Dr Jal ///_

Julian tapped the badge.

“Jal, here. What is your emergency?” 

_/// We require your presence at the Terran Hothouse immediately. There has been an accident ///_


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
  


>   
She could remember each scene with such startling clarity; moment after moment nestled safely within the confines of her memory, there to be called upon should the need arise. Gan’ar pressing his fingers into the dirt of Kestian's vast flowerbeds; Thara scattering the petals; Occat basking upon the rocks of Galru. All now dust that rode on solar winds. 
> 
> For they might be parted now, the four; Gan’ar and Thara and Occat gone with the breeze; but the longing that burned within her breast flared with the fading of the Light each evening. And what would she say? — That even Cardassia’s most verdant of oases could not compare to the forests of the Globe; that she once welcomed the glow of Omigos 15’s mornings upon her scales like the remembered caress of Gan’ar’s fingers; that the face of her father, dead and buried these months past, had become as distant to her as her freedom — she thought not. 
> 
> \-- Shoggoth. 2204. _The Flower of the Patrician_. Lakat: Culat University Press.  


  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
Agent Williams was dead.

Julian knew as soon as he saw him. It was the unnatural stillness, the laxity of the facial features that gave it away. The tired old cliche was that the dead always looked as though they were sleeping, but to Julian, they looked like wax figures. Slightly off in a way that defied description, that always left him unsettled despite his medical training. 

The body lay towards the east end of the Hothouse in the centre of a small, paved patio. A crowd had gathered despite the best efforts of the two security guards to hold the general public at bay. Julian watched as one, a Barzan with a shock of long white hair, cordoned off the scene. The other was out in the banana trees, his back to Julian. 

Inside the cordon were two figures, one of whom he recognised. 

“What happened?” Julian said, as he made his way over to the body. 

"We were hoping you’d tell us, Doctor,” said Mosh. The Bolian’s great bulk seemed to dwarf everything around him, including the hard-faced Andorian woman that stood to his left. 

Late fifties, at a guess, her white hair buzzed almost down to her skull, piercing black eyes fixed upon Julian. Three black stripes were stitched across the lapel of her grey overalls, denoting her rank as Chief of Security. There was a phaser at her hip. 

“As I was just saying to Sylvie, here,” Mosh continued, “it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything other than paperwork. My skills are more than a little rusty. I’d appreciate a second opinion.”

It was hot and humid inside the great glass walls. Julain could feel a bead of sweat begin to run down the hollow of his spine. Things looked different in the day; the golden glow of the orb’s shell filled the Hothouse with a warm, diffuse light that seemed to give the place a sort of serenity. It felt like a travesty to Julian that such a place should be the setting for a man’s final moments. 

“Well,” he said, kneeling beside the body and pulling his tricorder from the med-kit, “he’s definitely dead, and has been for no more than ten minutes.” 

Sylvie muttered something unintelligible under her breath. Whilst the universal translator had failed to pick up the words, Julian was certain they were less than flattering. 

“No obvious signs of trauma. No bleeding, no broken bones. No internal hemorrhaging.” He ran the tricorder across the dead man’s chest. “Might have been a heart attack, or a stroke, though the tricorder’s not picking much up to indicate that; I can’t rule it out until I’ve conducted a more thorough examination. Tricorders are a useful tool, but not infallible, especially when it comes to the deceased.” He sat back on his heels, and blew out his cheeks in thought. “What I can tell you is that it was quick. He was almost certainly dead before he hit the floor.” 

Mosh nodded. “I came to much the same conclusion. Natural death, I thought. No spring chicken, dear old Tom, and he hardly led what could be called a model lifestyle. Too much fatty food, and not nearly enough exercise. I told him it would catch up with him sooner or later.”

Coming from Mosh, Julian thought it was all a bit stones and glass houses, but said nothing. There was something that had caught his eye: a flash of red in William’s pocket. Pulling a pair of tweezers and a specimen jar from the med-kit, he began to tease it from the fabric. 

It was a flower petal. Bright vermillion, tinged with white at the tip. 

Julian stared at it for a moment before dropping it into the waiting jar. There were no flowers like it in his immediate surroundings, he noted. It must have come from somewhere else. Not so unusual to find a petal in a place like this, he thought. After all, Omigos 15 was one great big garden. 

Still, it niggled at him in a way he couldn’t quite bring himself to ignore. 

“Natural or unnatural, it doesn’t explain what Mr Williams was doing here,” said Sylvie, the sound of her voice breaking Julian’s train of thought.

“To be fair, Sylvie, that’s not the sort of answer Dr Jal can provide,” said Mosh.

“No,” Sylvie conceded. Her gaze flickered into the banana trees, and she continued, “What do you think? Found anything useful?”

“Perhaps he just wanted a stroll?” came the reply. 

Sylvie rolled her eyes. "Don't be funny, Sloan. It doesn't suit you."

Julian felt himself tense at the mention of the name. He turned to watch as Luther Sloan sauntered across the paving slabs towards him, dressed in the black and grey overalls of a security officer. Sloan looked as though he was in his early twenties; his face still held the roundness of youth, and his slim figure had yet to fill out, giving him a lean, slightly clumsy look. Julian felt the tightness in his chest slacken a fraction as he realised Sloan would not recognise him—from his perspective, they had yet to meet. 

Julian felt a flare of burning hatred bubble up from his chest at the sight of the man, their previous encounter still fresh in his mind. He fought not to let the emotion show, schooling his features into a mask of polite indifference. 

He needn't have bothered. Sloan’s gaze slid right over the Doctor, noting little more than his presence before landing squarely on Sylvie. His eyes were cold, hard. 

“Apologies, Chief,” he said. “No immediate sign of foul play. I have a witness that saw Mr Williams collapse, and another that claims to have seen him heading this way shortly after the start of Second Quarter. Naahish is busy taking their statements now.” Sloan nodded in the direction of the Barzan, who was talking animatedly to a middle-aged Vulcan not far from the cordon. “As for why Mr Williams was here, I don’t know.” 

“Have you looked at his schedule?”

Slone nodded. “He had an appointment with a representative from the Ferengi Alliance penciled in for Second Quarter. Nothing for Third.” 

“And where is the Ferengi Representative?”

“Still on the station. His ship is still docked in Bay 9.”

“I want him called in for questioning,” said Sylvie. When Sloan made no move to leave, she raised an incredulous eyebrow and said, “Well? What are you waiting for? You have your orders, Sloan. Get on with it.”

Julian watched as Slone beat a hasty retreat, disappearing off into the crowd that had gathered behind the cordon. He made a note to keep a tab on Sloan’s movements. Quite how, he didn’t yet know; it was yet another problem for him to add to his not inconsiderable list. 

“Someone will need to inform his next of kin,” said Mosh after a moment.

Sylvie sighed heavily. “I know.”

“Not an enviable task.” Mosh placed a hand on the Security Chief’s shoulder. “I can do it if you’d rather not.”

“Strange, isn’t it, how fleeting it all is?” said Sylvie, her black eyes softening for a second. “Here one minute, gone the next.”

Julian looked at the body cooling on the paving slabs and couldn’t help but agree.  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
The body was released to the Medical Unit half-way through Third Quarter, the operating room having become a make-shift morgue. Julian had passed the time between the discovery of poor Mr Williams and the delivery of his body by working through Dr Vathek’s appointment list. Eight patients in total, all permanent staff members, and nothing out of the ordinary. Two strained muscles, five more cases of flu, the odd persistent cough; it had helped that Julian had already seen his notes, and therefore knew what was wrong with his patients before they had even walked through the door.

A more thorough examination of the body had yielded little in the way of answers. Thomas Williams was a healthy enough individual, aside from the fact that he was dead. Liver slightly inflamed, a touch of atherosclerosis; nothing out of the ordinary for a man in his mid-sixties, and certainly nothing fatal. 

Julian was hard-pressed to identify the cause of death.

“Thoughts, Frankie?” he said, lying back in his chair in an artless sprawl.

“Not my strong point, pathology.”

“Hmm, can’t say it’s my specialty either.” Julian scowled at his notes. “Pity we’re so short staffed—I wouldn’t say no to a third opinion right now.”

The list of tests they had run upon the body was extensive. Every variety of sample had been taken, both the usual and the obscure, as had a wealth of scans. The autopsy, performed in digital, a 3D facsimile of the body projected above the Medical Unit’s central computer, had given them nothing save a headache. 

“I’d say ask Mosh, but he’s about as useful as a chocolate teapot when it comes to actual medicine. Been behind that desk of his for far too long.”

“What about the night shift staff?”

“Sick. Well, all except Dr Kah-ak, and her grasp of human anatomy is… tenuous.” Frankie sighed. “I’ll get her to take a look this evening when she comes on shift, though I doubt she’ll turn up anything we haven’t.” 

Julian nodded. 

People didn’t just die without cause. There was always a reason, whether natural or not. Something had killed Thomas Williams. The fact that exactly what had thus far eluded them didn’t make it any less true. 

Julian thought back to the confrontation he had witnessed between Williams and Garak. Perhaps what had killed Williams was not something, but someone—that Williams had ended up dead less than a day after his confrontation with the Cardassian couldn’t be a coincidence. But Garak had an alibi: Julian himself. He had been busy tending to Garak’s hand at the moment Williams had died. It didn’t rule him out completely—if anything, it made Julian more suspicious of Garak’s rather convenient injury—but it certainly made things more difficult. 

Garak had to be involved. He knew enough of Garak’s past that the idea was perfectly plausible. Problem was, there was no _evidence_. 

Well, save the flower. 

Julian dug the specimen jar from his pocket and placed it upon his desk with a clink. The shape of a fan, the delicate petal rested against the glass, veins threaded like a spiderweb beneath the surface. It looked a little familiar, but he simply couldn’t place it. 

“I found this is Williams’ pocket,” said Julian. “Do you know what it is?”

“A petal,” said Frankie, adding at Julian’s glare, “Looks like it might have come from an orchid.”

“Well, that certainly narrows down the search,” he said sarcastically. 

“Ach, I doubt it’s even connected, Julian. The globe is full of orchids, if it even came from one, which is a pretty big if, given my knowledge of xenobotany. Chances are, he just brushed against something and it happened to catch.” Frankie took a long sip of tea. “Fat lot of good it does us anyway, since according to our scans, the poor man simply stopped living, no rhyme nor reason to any of it.” 

“Still…” Julian held the little jar up to the light, peering into it as though the answer were inscribed upon the petal itself. “I’d like to know what it came from, even if it’s only to satisfy my own intellectual curiosity.”

“Fair enough.”

They worked in silence for the best part of an hour. Julian trawling through the globe’s vast botanical database; Frankie re-running the simulated autopsy, peeling back the layers of Williams’ digitised body like the layers of an onion. It was only as the chrono chimed the start of Fourth Quarter that they gave up their respective investigations, both thoroughly disheartened. 

The closest thing Julian had found was an Edosian Orchid. Same colour, similar shape, but the texture was too different. The veins that ran like cobwebs beneath the surface were different too, white rather than deep red. Close, but no cigar. 

Edosian Orchids. The bell those words rang was colossal. Garak had mentioned them the previous evening, Julian remembered, in the conversation he had overheard. He knew the man was especially fond of them, too; he had a pot of them in his quarters on Deep Space Nine, a point of joy that he often mentioned to the Doctor. 

A tenuous coincidence at best. Especially considering the petal had probably originated from a different species entirely. Still, it was another black mark upon Garak’s less than spotless record, and it made Julian uneasy. 

Frankie made a number of noises about waiting beds and mugs of Tarkalean tea, before shuffling out of the operating room with a yawn and a farewell wave. Julian, however, made no move to leave. His mind was buzzing with a million and one thoughts; in such a state, he knew sleep would remain elusive. 

Instead, he would wait for Dr Kah-ak, and use the time in between to mull over the questions that plagued his thoughts.

The question of Williams’ death; his one-time (but certainly not this-time) friend’s potential involvement in said death; the pretty red petal he had found in the pocket of the dead man; and, as always, the question of the Terran Hothouse, and how to get back in unobserved. 

Not for the first time, Julian was thankful for his enhanced memory. 

The schematics he had been given back on Deep Space Nine detailed a subterranean boiler room, located near the eastern entrance. From it, he recalled, rose a large brick chimney, more ornamental than functional given that the Hlasshouse was heated via a small fusion reactor rather than the coal fires specified in the original Victorian design. Opening a new window on the computer terminal, he brought up a copy of the globe’s guidebook, skipping through it until he came to the section regarding the operation of the Terran Hothouse.

It would take very little to trigger an explosion from the boiler room. A little bucket chemistry, a touch of cowboy engineering, and the resulting bang would be big enough to level an entire planet. He could jerry rig a timer easily enough; the chrono on his bedside table and the wiring from the replicator would do. The rest was just rudimentary electronics. 

The explosion would be the easy part. It would be the rest of it that would cause him trouble. 

No casualties. That’s what Agent Brown had said, and Julian was damned if that was going to change. Whilst a great believer in the greater good, the continuation of reality being as greater a good as possible, if there was a way to achieve his goal without sacrificing the lives of everyone stationed upon Omigos 15, as history said there was, then it was his duty to find it. 

What sort of scenario would result in the complete evacuation of a space station? Nothing legal. He thought back to the evacuation of Deep Space Nine the previous year. War seemed a little beyond his capabilities, enhanced though they were.

He rose from his seat and replicated himself another raktajino. Cradling the mug between his hands, he sat heavily in his chair and began to think. 

The first logical step would be to minimise the number of people on Omigos 15. Close the world to all visitors. That would be easy enough. His position within the Medical Unit meant he could make a convincing case for some sort of quarantine measure. A little falsified data would be all it would take. Arethian Flu was already running rampant upon the globe; the loss of half the medical team bore testament to that. At worst, he could use Williams’ death as a bargaining chip; it seemed an underhanded thing to do, but needs must, and the inexplicable nature of the man’s untimely demise lent a certain credence to his call for strict isolation. 

After all, if they couldn’t explain how Williams had died, then they couldn’t prevent it from happening again. Better to be safe than sorry. 

Temporary quarantine. Yes, thought Julian, that would take care of the visitors quite nicely. But what of the staff? 

It had to be something they couldn't fix internally. Something dangerous enough to drive them from the globe whilst they waited for help. Loss of life support? Spoofed, of course—actual elimination of the life support system would nix the explosion, given the lack of oxygen. 

Julian frowned, taking a sip from his mug. No, that wouldn’t work. For a start, he had no idea how the life support system worked on the globe. Or if there was a life support system, given that much of the plant life on the globe had happily existed for several millennia without external interference. Truth be told, the place was more like a planet than a space station. The plants present upon Omigos 15 no doubt provided most of the globe’s oxygen, the dense metal plate in the centre its gravity, evapotranspiration its weather system. Even the cycling between day and night appeared to be as much an artifact of the globe itself than any external system, no more able to be disrupted than the rising of the sun back on Earth. 

No, loss of life support was out. It would have to be something external. Collision course with an asteroid or some other rogue celestial body, perhaps. 

The idea had merit. Time, however, would be a limiting factor. Julian had little experience of spoofing such complicated data on the computer systems of his own time period, let alone those of one thirty years previous. His genetic enhancements would aid him in the endeavour, no doubt, but it still wouldn’t be easy. And, most crucially, it wouldn’t be quick. Julian glanced at the chrono—by his reckoning, the task would take him considerably longer than the day and a half he had left. 

There simply wasn’t enough time. 

Julian rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling the prickle of stubble against his palm. Putting aside the problem for the moment, he opened up a new window on the terminal and dashed out a quick report recommending closure of the globe to visitors due to _‘the ongoing spread of viral contagion throughout staff and patrons’_, heavily hinting at the possibility of mutation. He added in a vague reference to Mr Williams’ death in the hope that Mosh and the other senior staff of Omigos 15 might incorrectly connect the two. He felt a touch of guilt at the lie as he pressed send. 

It was for the greater good, he told himself. The lies. The subterfuge. If the continuation of reality required a few small lies, and one rather large explosion, then it was a small price to pay. One even sanctioned by his beloved Federation. Article 14: the section of the Starfleet Charter that permitted the use of extraordinary measures during times of dire emergency. 

Leveling what practically amounted to a planet was most definitely an extraordinary measure. 

The irony of the situation was not lost on Julian. That he should justify his actions with the same clause that had given its name to Section 31 left him uneasy; he had declined their offer of employment, disgusted at the regularity with which the organisation flouted the rules and regulations of the Federation they claimed to work for, and yet he found himself working on the same basic principle, drawing the same lines in the sand. 

Garak would be proud. Lies and subterfuge, from his dear Doctor? Perhaps there was hope for him after all, despite what Garak called his unfortunate Federation handicap.

Julian looked at the specimen jar that sat upon his desk, at the petal inside it and sighed. He wondered, briefly, whether the plant it had come from was especially rare. A great number of species grown here were. He thought, sadly, of how much would be lost in two days time. Of how many species would never been seen again, sacrificed to the darkness of space. Of how it would be his fault. 

The pneumatic hiss of the outer doors broke through Julian’s brooding silence. He glanced at the chrono on his desk; Dr Kah-ak was early. She wasn’t due on shift for another twenty minutes, or so the roster tacked on the far wall indicated. The footsteps that echoed down the corridor sounded heavy, the stride long. He waited patiently for the chirps of the inner door’s keypad; they didn’t come. Instead, there was the faint sound of metal rubbing against metal, and the slightest smell of burnt electronics. 

Whomever was on the other side of the operating room door, it was not Dr Kah-ak. 

Intrigued, Julian slid out from behind his desk and concealed himself in the shadow of the washroom door, watching as a tall, familiar figure strode into the room. 

Sloan. 

After a quick glance around the room, he sat down at the terminal, pressing his gloved hand flat against the touchpad. To Julian’s surprise, the lock screen flickered and died. A few seconds passed before the terminal rebooted, fully active, the Medical Unit’s entire file system now accessible.

The files from Williams’ autopsy were the first set Sloan pulled. Cause of death noted as inconclusive, they were quickly closed, replaced with that afternoon’s appointment log. Medical notes from each patient Julian had treated were retrieved, read, and discarded. Then, once that avenue of inquiry had been exhausted, he began to work through the staff files. Including Julian’s. 

“USS McClintock?” said Slone to himself with a huff of amusement. “What are you hiding, Dr Jal?” 

Sloan pulled an isolinear chip from his pocket, pushed it into the terminal’s data slot and began downloading. A few seconds and several kiloquads of data later, he removed the chip. Julian watched as Sloan opened up a new window and began to delve into the operating system’s core, chopping and changing as he went; Julian noted the installation of a keylogger, along with a nasty bit of code that allowed remote access to both voice and text commands.

After a moment spent erasing all hint of his illicit activities, Sloan logged off and rose from the chair. His gaze fell upon the little specimen bottle. He picked it up, holding it up to the light and peering intently at the petal inside. A small, nasty smile curled at the corner of his mouth. 

“Interesting,” he said, pocketing the jar. 

Julian watched Sloan disappear down the hallway, and the shadow that followed a few steps behind.


	5. Chapter 5

  
  
  


>   
**Captain’s Log_date 2183:**
> 
> We came upon the globes of Omigos whilst on routine exercises a few hundred lightyears out from Panora. They were orbiting a dwarf star in what we now know as the Oclid Minor system. Eighteen in total, the globes appeared to be attached to one another by hollow, glass-like strings. Presumably the remnants of an inter-sphere transportation system. 
> 
> The globes were uninhabited. One out of the eighteen appeared to be intact, and emitted a golden, glowing light from its core. Further exploration by Away Team Zeta showed the globe to be full of plantlife, much of which did not appear in any Federation database. Initial analysis determined that the globes were constructed well over million years previously. Ensign Zhang discovered the remnants of a cloaking device on the fifteenth globe, which may go some way to explaining why this strange system has only recently come to our attention.  


  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
For the second night in a row, Julian slept badly, rising again with the light that poured in through his bedroom window. Muzzily, he washed and dressed, heading out into the globe proper in search of breakfast. He had spent the latter part of the previous evening’s Fourth Quarter disassembling his replicator. He had been correct in his assumption that the construction of a timer would be simple; it had taken him less than an hour to complete the assembly. All he needed now was to sneak into the Hothouse boiler room and connect it up—a task no doubt easier said than done.

The staff canteen was located across from the service docks, not far from the rear of the Vulcan Conservatory. A great stone building, built in the Cardassian style, Julian noted, it stretched out towards the very edge of the globe, its eastern-most wall flush with the strange, glowing glass of Omigos 15’s exterior. Inside, large tables ran lengthways across the room, wooden benches tucked neatly beneath. At one end stood a vast counter, behind which Julian could see the kitchen, its bubbling pots and hissing pans filling the room with the scent of food from a hundred worlds.

A brief flash of his staff badge earned him a breakfast of red leaf tea and a stack of toast, complete with moba jam and thick-cut Terran marmalade. Stomach rumbling, Julian made his way towards an empty space over by the window. As he sat and ate, he watched the workers out in the service docks. It was surprisingly quiet. In the ten minutes that had passed since he had taken his seat, not a single ship had docked. Nor had one left. 

No entertainment to be found people watching, he remembered the book Garak had given him shortly before he left. Or tried to give him. It was, as with most things these days, complicated. 

_The Flower of the Patrician_. 

He had taken to keeping it with him, sure that its inexplicable appearance in his pocket instead of the PADD was of some importance. If nothing else, it provided him with entertainment. Or, at the very least, more entertainment than the sight of an empty space dock.

Pulling it from his pocket, he began to read, struck once more at the pointlessness of a mystery novel where the ending was already a foregone conclusion. Ilnal was guilty, and would no doubt die at the hands of the Cardassian Justice System. Guilty of what Julian had yet to decipher. He was certain he was missing some of the subtext; though proficient, he was hardly fluent in Kardassi, and as often with foreign languages, he found much of the nuance passed him by. 

It was all simile and metaphor. Dust played a common theme, he noted. The dust storms of Cardassia. The dust in the Library of Galru. The crumbling of Kestian to dust and ash. Desert dust. Grave dust. 

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._

The words appeared unbidden in his mind. They seemed appropriate for a novel where anyone of note died within fifty or so pages of their introduction, despite the cultural divide. 

Julian huffed with displeasure as he turned the page only to find more dust. More death. And no mystery. 

He was five hundred pages in, and Ilnal hadn’t done anything more offensive to Cardassian sensibilities than delay the posting of a letter to her father. Whilst Cardassians placed no small importance on their duty to their family, Julian doubted that forgetting to keep in touch with one’s parents constituted a capital offence. There were only sixy pages to go; Julian was certain that he had missed something important. Cardassian literature was difficult at the best of times, but this was downright impenetrable. 

“I hear we’ve been quarantined.”

Julian jumped, startled by the sudden materialisation of Garak at his side. He hadn’t heard him approach, absorbed in his book. He blinked owlishly as everything began to slot back into place. 

“Ah, yes. My doing, I’m afraid,” he said, setting the book aside and taking a bite of toast, now cold. “It’s the Arethian Flu. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be abating. I thought it would probably be best if we stop all but essential travel for a while. It might help prevent the spread.” 

"A wise idea, Doctor." Garak nodded to the space opposite Julian. “May I join you?”

No, Julian thought. His head was still fuzzy from lack of sleep. He was tired, and another long day of plotting and planning awaited him. The last thing he wanted was to spend his breakfast tiptoeing around the Cardassian. Especially considering Garak thought him some Federation spy—which, in an odd way, he was. 

He opened his mouth to tell Garak he was about to leave, when instead he heard himself say, “Be my guest.”

“Most kind of you.” 

Julian watched as Garak arranged himself primly upon the bench, tucking his napkin into the neck of his tunic before reaching for his own cup of red leaf tea. He raised his mug in salute, taking a delicate sip, his eyes never leaving Julian’s. They were wide and bright, sparkling with something Julian couldn’t identify. 

“How is your hand?” he asked before Garak could steer the conversation in a direction he didn’t want to go. Offence was the best defense, at least when it came to Garak. 

“Much better, thank you, Doctor.” He held up his palm, giving his fingers a little wiggle in demonstration. His sharp nails glinted in the light. “And before you ask, I believe I’ve learnt my lesson with regards to the merits of appropriate protection. I shan’t be abandoning my gloves for the sake of a few saved minutes again.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Garak steepled his fingers. He watched with polite interest as Julian began to spread jam upon a slice of toast. Slowly, pointedly, his fingers began to slide against one another, forming a clasp, his chin coming to rest upon his knuckles. 

"I was unaware you read Kardassi," he said, meaningfully eyeing the book at Julian’s side. 

"Not well, I'm afraid."

"It’s still a far sight more than most of your species, I expect." Garak shook his head gently. His hair, loose today, the strands falling almost to his waist, shimmered with the movement. "Starfleet do tend to over-rely on their universal translators. There is so much nuance lost when one hears everything through algorithms."

Wary of Dr Zarr’s warning the previous day, he did not want Garak to announce his supposed former affiliation (or actual current affiliation, if he were to be pedantic) to the rest of the cafeteria. Too many questions meant too many lies; deception had never been Julian’s strongpoint, the concealment of his enhancements notwithstanding. Lies were Garak’s bread and butter, and as ever, Julian wondered how much of the man that sat before him was real, and how much was a fabrication. 

"I'm no longer with Starfleet," Julian said in clipped, hushed tones. 

"Which no doubt explains much." Garak took a bite of his ikri bun, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin before continuing. "I must say, I’m surprised at your choice of reading material. Humans au fait with Shoggoth are few and far between. Though, I admit, I am not familiar with this particular Enigma Tale.”

“It was a gift from a friend,” said Julian. 

“Oh? How surprising.”

Julian frowned, intrigued. “How so?”

“My species, as a whole, is hardly known for their willingness to play nicely with others.”

A non-answer from Garak. Or perhaps a partial one. Either way, it appeared that the younger version of his friend was just as irritatingly reticent as the older one. 

“Who says the book was given to me by a Cardassian?” Julian replied. 

“The book you hold in your hands, my dear Doctor, is exceedingly rare. A prize possession and valuable beyond measure. I would therefore say that the individual who gave it to you is Cardassian by virtue of the fact that they managed to acquire a copy of the book at all. And not just any Cardassian, but one who cares for you a great deal.” Garak’s look was sly. “A lover, perhaps?”

An interesting supposition, made more so by who had voiced it. Who would know one’s motivations better than oneself? Julian fought hard not to let the sudden flutter hope that gripped his heart show upon his face. He did not prevail. 

“Just a friend,” he said, truthfully.

Garak’s eye ridge quirked. “Is that your interpretation, or theirs?”

Despite himself, Julian blushed. He took another bite of toast, and said, “Do you read much, Mr Neic?”

Garak took the abrupt change of subject in his stride, and said, “I find it to be one of life’s greatest pleasures.”

“And do you limit yourself to the literature of your own people?”

“I have yet to find anything capable of matching it in terms of either quality or style.”

Julian smiled. It was a familiar refrain from the Cardassian. Julian could see a hint of the man he knew, the man Garak would become; the literature-loving tailor, whose fastidious nature extended to all aspects of his life, his choice of reading material included. 

“I’d have thought your tastes more adventurous,” Julian said offhandedly. He picked up his mug of tea, swirling the contents in a way he knew infuriated his companion’s older self.

The twitch of Garak's jaw told him the action had a similar effect now. He took a sip to mask the grin that threatened to break across his face. 

“How so?”

“You’re far away from home, eating Vulcan soltars with your Ikri buns, making polite conversation with a Human. I’d call that adventurous behaviour for a Cardassian.” He finished the last of his toast, licking his fingers. Julian noted with interest the way Garak’s eyes followed the movement. “I’d have thought your literary preferences would match.”

“You’re always welcome to change my mind, Doctor.”

Julian smiled, enjoying himself. “That supposes I have the time. I’m a busy man.”

“No doubt, but I find that there’s always time for literature.”

The words felt like an echo. It brought Julian up short, sending him crashing back down to earth, or globe equivalent. Garak was not his friend. Yes, he walked like him, talked like him, even looked like him, minus a few decades, but he was not the Garak of Deep Space Nine. 

He had to leave. 

“But, alas, not right now. Duty calls, I’m afraid,” he said, rising from his seat, carefully avoiding the Cardassian’s gaze. 

He was at the canteen door when he felt a touch at his shoulder. Julian turned and came face to face with Garak. He was standing a fraction too close for comfort, his blue eyes fixed upon the Doctor’s. 

“You forgot your book,” he said softly, holding out the novel to Julian. 

Their fingers brushed as he took it, and though he tried, Julian couldn’t quite repress the shiver the touch elicited.  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
The body was gone. And the strangest thing was, no-one seemed to have noticed.

Julian himself hadn’t until well into Second Quarter. To be fair, he had been busy with the morning’s appointments—another four cases of flu, all of them serious enough to require immediate transport to the isolation unit out on Gaan’tor. It was only as he had ventured into the operating room in search of a laser scalpel that he saw it was empty. 

He frowned. 

At first, he wondered whether one of the other members of the medical team had moved the body. It would make sense, as the makeshift morgue had taken out the operating room. If there had been an emergency during the night requiring surgery, the body would have had to have been relocated. However, as Julian glanced through the logs, he found no record of such an incident. 

Stranger still was the fact that the stasis field remained in place around the operating table. Set to prevent decay, it still hummed merrily around the now empty space. Another check of the logs showed that it had not been interrupted since Julian had set it the previous evening.

A press of a button, and the stasis field powered down. Julian ran a finger across the empty table. It was covered in a thin layer of dust.

Odd.

Julian tapped the security badge at his breast and said, “Dr Jal to Dr Jones.”

_/// Frankie here. ///_

“I think we’ve got a problem.” 

It took ten minutes for Frankie to make an appearance. Time which Julian spent hunting down the samples they had taken from Williams the previous day. The body might have disappeared, but that didn’t mean they were out of options. 

As he pulled a blood sample from the freezer, Frankie walked through the operating room door. 

“I see what you mean.”

Julian extricated himself from the storage chest, vial in gloved hand. He set it down upon his desk and walked over to the operating table, watching as Frankie surveyed the scene. 

“It’s covered in dust,” he said.

“So I see.” Frankie tapped a gloved finger against the tabletop, lifting it to inspect the grey dust that covered the tip. 

“The stasis field was still in place when I arrived. There’s no indication in the logs that it was ever shut down.”

“Could be a glitch.”

Julian remembered Sloan’s appearance in the operating room the previous evening. He had tampered with the terminal on the desk. The records could have easily been interfered with, too, the logs changed, power interruptions unrecorded. Not that he could tell Frankie; Sloan’s appearance in the operating room would result in a number of uncomfortable questions, few of which Julian had answers to. 

“Maybe,” he conceded. “Doesn’t explain the dust, though.”

And neither did Sloan.

“No, it doesn’t,” Frankie agreed. “It’s very odd.”

“I take it there’s some sort of procedure for dealing with deaths on the globe? Presumably they’re not buried here.”

“Repatriated.” Frankie sighed. “I know where you’re going with this, Sadiq, but Williams’ body wasn’t scheduled to be picked up for another four days. And that was before the quarantine was put in place. We’ve had no ships in or out for ten hours. There’s no way his body’s left station.”

“Then where is it? Bodies don’t just disappear.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” 

Julian’s shoulders slumped. This was a complication he didn’t need. He glanced at the chrono on his desk; time was already tight enough as it was. There was less than a day left before Omigos 15 would be reduced to nothing more than dust and shards of shattered glass. Fifteen hours, Three Quarters. 

The hum of a tricorder filled the air as Frankie began to scan the empty operating table. Julian strode over to the desk, reaching for the PADD that lay upon it when he noticed something had changed. The vial of Williams’ blood he had taken from the freezer now contained little more than dust. Fine grey dust that coated the wall of the tube. 

“Frankie,” he said, holding the vial aloft. “I think I know where the body is.”  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
It was raining when Julian left the Medical Unit. Fat, warm drops fell from the glass sky of the globe, splattering against his uniform as he made his way through the sprawl of Qo’noS pools towards the Terran Hothouse. The golden glow of Omigos 15’s strange outer glass had darkened to a deep orange as the globe transitioned from day to night.

The afternoon had been one of numerous frustrations. Proving that the dust was, in fact, all the remained of Williams’ body had been more difficult than Julian had anticipated. There was no DNA, nor anything else to indicate the fine grey dust had ever been Human. Chemical analysis showed it to be little more than a jumble of half-degraded proteins and free amino acids, with the odd organic compound thrown in for good measure. If he had not witnessed the change of the blood sample himself, Julian would not have believed the dust had once been Williams. 

The cause of the strange transition remained equally elusive. It was highly likely that the cause of death and that of the body’s reduction to dust were one and the same. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore; a mysterious death, a disappearing body. Williams had been poisoned, Julian was sure of it. Though quite with what, he didn’t know. 

After a lot of laborious work, Frankie had managed to isolate a compound they believed could be responsible. However, nothing in the Medical Unit’s databases had shown even a partial match, and they had precious little of it to run the simulations again. 

Julian had been careful to run the simulations through the PADD rather than the operating room’s terminal, mindful of the alterations Sloan had made the previous evening. He couldn’t be sure that the removal of the software Sloan had installed the previous evening would go unnoticed; whatever Sloan had been searching for, Julian was willing to bet a lot of latinum that it had everything to do with what had happened to Williams. 

Of course, the globe’s security team would be informed of what had happened to Williams’ body. There was no avoiding that. But, Julian thought, the fewer details available for Sloan’s perusal, the better—whatever had killed Williams had reduced his body to dust, and information like that was best kept out of the hands of Section 31. As, he thought, was the agent that caused it. 

As the chrono had chimed the start of Third Quarter, tired and frustrated, Julian had made his excuses and left, claiming to want to re-inspect the site of Williams’ death. A death that had begun to look more and more suspicious with every passing second. 

In his pocket, alongside the book Garak had given him back on Deep Space Nine, there was the timer he had constructed the previous evening. He was going to kill two birds with one stone. 

The rain pounded upon the roof of the Terran Houthouse, the sound almost deafening. Mindful of the time, Julian made a quick circuit of the patio on which Williams's body had been found. Another of the wisteria-covered arbour in which he has found Williams, then very much alive, deep in conversation with Garak. He found nothing of note in either location. He suspected the globe’s security service had made a detailed sweep of the Hothouse; any evidence would surely now be in their possession. In Sloan’s possession. 

Still, it was not a wasted journey. In reality, Williams’ death was little more than a diversion from his mission. Interesting, potentially connected, but ultimately unimportant. Julian patted his pocket, feeling the outline of the timer beneath the fabric. 

The Hothouse boiler room was located below the structure itself. Accessed through a service shaft built into the floor by the eastern wall, it sprawled out beneath Hothouse in a maze of ducts and vents. In the centre of it stood a small fusion reactor, little more than the size of a rubbish bin, filling the room with an eerie blue light. 

The door to the service shaft was not alarmed. It was, however, locked. Prepared for this eventuality, Julian had pilfered a laser scalpel from the Medical Unit. He pulled it from his pocket and began to work on the lock, carefully slicing into the mechanism, through the bolts, and out the other side. The damage would be irreparable, but given that neither the lock nor the door would exist in ten hours time, Julian thought it an acceptable risk. 

The sky had darkened fully, the light of the stars filtering through the globe’s now transparent outer glass. It cast the Hothouse into a grey twilight, the only illumination that of the emergency lighting the other side of the palm trees. With one last glance to ensure he wasn’t being followed, Julian slipped into the shaft and closed the door behind him. Nimbly, he scrambled down the rungs and into the boiler room below. 

It took a little work to install the timer. Julian’s knowledge of engineering was less complete than he’d have liked, his knowledge of early 23th century engineering moreso. The reactor was older than he had expected. A hundred years old, possibly more, it was of a design long since made obsolete. It made things difficult. 

Difficult, though not impossible. 

After an hour or so of pulling wires, tracing pipes, and reprogramming the interface to interact with his make-shift timer, Julian sat back and sighed with relief. He programmed in the date and time of the explosion, and flicked the switch. A low hum filled the room as the conduits began to fill with plasma. When the countdown hit zero, there would be a pulse of energy, one that would increase the intensity of the reactor’s lasers, setting off a chain reaction that would blow the core sky high. 

Half his plan was complete. Now for the rest. 

The idea had come to him earlier that evening, and it was beautifully simple. War had been the motivation behind the evacuation of Deep Space Nine. Whilst he couldn’t start a war, or even simulate one in the time he had left, he could use the same motivation. 

Fear.

All he needed was a credible threat. It didn’t have to be real. Just something convincing enough to ensure complete evacuation of the globe. 

Something like a mysterious illness that turned bodies to dust.

Julian tapped his security badge. 

“Dr Jal to Dr Zarr.”

_/// Mosh here ///_ came the reply a moment later. 

“I’d like to make a request regarding the quarantine measures currently in place.”

_/// Go ahead ///_

“As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m afraid Frankie and I have been unable to determine the cause of Williams’ death. As such, we can’t be sure that whatever killed him wasn’t something contagious. Several members of staff came into contact with Williams’ body. I’d like to recommend an evacuation of the globe, at least for the next few days, until his cause of death can be determined. The medical facilities on Resnova XI are far better equipped to deal with something like this than our own.”

There a pause. Julian could feel his gut twist with nervous tension as he waited for a reply. He needed Mosh to agree to a full evacuation, otherwise he would have to find a new way to ensure the explosion caused no casualties. 

_/// That’s a very big ask, Sadiq ///_

“I know, but I’ve been back to the Hothouse. Had a hunch so I went to give things another look. There’s more dust. Plant not animal, but it appears to be spreading.”

Whilst not exactly a lie, there being plenty of dust in the Hothouse, as Julian had personally discovered when he had appeared flat on his back upon the paving slabs not two nights previously, it wasn’t the complete truth. Still, he hoped it was a credible enough threat to appeal to the Bolian’s sense of caution.

_/// I see ///_

“Omigos 15 is already under quarantine to outsiders. A complete shutdown of operations for a day, possibly two wouldn’t do that much more damage. And, if nothing else, it would at least prevent any further spread of Arethian Flu. The rate the staff are dropping, we’d effectively have a complete shutdown by the end of the week anyway.”

Another anxious pause. Longer this time. 

_/// I agree. I’ll see what I can do. Be ready for transport off the station within the next two hours. Mosh out ///_

Julian breathed a sigh of relief. His plan was complete. All that was left to do now was to return to the Medical Unit and await transport off-world. 

There was still the matter of Sloan and Garak. The records the DTI agent had given him stated that Sloan had seen both he and Garak in the Hothouse shortly before the explosion. Julian wondered how static the temporal nodes Agent Brown had mentioned were; his choice of evacuation strategy had effectively eliminated the possibility of Sloan observing Garak and himself in the Hothouse. With any luck, all three of them would be well on their way to Resnova XI by the time the reactor was due to go bang.

Perhaps the only static element of the node was the explosion itself? Omigos 15 had to be destroyed; everything else was fluid. 

Julian certainly hoped so. 

It took ten minutes for Julian to extricate himself from the mess of wires and pipes, and another fifteen to put everything back into some semblance of order. It was best that in the unlikely event someone should stray down into the boiler room over the next eight hours, everything looked exactly as it should. The fate of the universe depended upon it. 

Eventually satisfied, he emerged from the access shaft and into the Hothouse proper, blinking in the darkness. Once his eyes had adjusted, he made his way towards the exit. He was less than ten paces from the door when an arm grabbed him from behind, circling his chest with an almost crushing force.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Dr Jal.”

The last thing he felt was the press of a hypospray at his neck and the crushing disappointment of his luck running out.


	6. Chapter 6

  
  
  


>   
Constructed in 2132, the Glasshouses of Omigos 15 are some of the oldest and largest in the Oclid system, and possibly the wider Alpha Quadrant. Over the years, the five glasshouses have gone through a myriad of changes; most recently the opening of the Terran Hothouse’s large waterfall in 2339, and the introduction of several rare Cardassian species in 2341. 
> 
> The Glasshouses of Omigos 15 are a vital resource for research and conservation. Over 87% of the species located within the Glasshouses are considered at risk of extinction. 
> 
> \-- Ras’oth A. J. D., et al. 2343. Phenotypic plasticity of _Hedera helix_ in off-world conservation environments. _Journal of Exobiological Conservation_. **23**(15):3451-3460.  


  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
He was dreaming again. Dreaming of Garak. Of kisses that tasted of sweet kanar, and scales that felt like silk beneath his fingertips.

They were in his quarters, in the Infirmary, in the Hothouse, Julian on his back as the world swirled and changed around them. Garak was straddled across his hips, shirtless, hands trailing sensuously across the ridges that decorated his chest. Young and old at the same time, a blend of two men—the same man—his hair short and his claws black and his eyes ancient.

The air crackled with power. Julian could feel it dancing across his skin, sinking into his bones. It complemented the heavy weight of Garak. Made his muscles tense, as if to throw the Cardassian from him. Send him sprawling across the floor in a heap of silk and scales. 

But Julian did not move. He watched. 

Garak’s hands traveled lower, over his stomach—solid in one blink, soft in the next—towards the waist of his trousers. Grey fingers trailed from scales to black cloth. Then lower. 

Lower. 

“Don’t touch yourself,” Julian commanded. “Touch me.” 

Garak’s hands stopped their exploration. He held them out to Julian, palms flat, waiting for the press of skin to scale. An invitation. A promise. Elegant in its simplicity; his waiting fingers the colour of stormy skies, ending in sharp black points, as though they had been dipped in ink. 

Julian took them, palm to palm, his fingers sliding between Garak’s own. The Cardassian’s head lolled back, exposing the column of his throat. His chest heaved. A sound of a moan, barely audible, whispered between them as Julian stroked the sensitive webbing between Garak’s fingers. 

Time stretched and twisted, spooling out like rope, curling and coiling as it went. Looping back on itself as Julian blinked, all deja vu and repetition. 

“Touch me,” he said. 

Pleaded. 

Repeated. 

Garak’s hands withdrew from his. Old hands for a young man. Young hands for an old one. They swept across Julian’s stomach, his chest, his collarbone. Then they wrapped around his throat, fingers cool against his heated skin. And he squeezed. 

_”Time to wake up, Julian.”_  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
Julian awoke with a start and groaned.

Tied to a chair, wrists restrained behind his back, he was trapped. He felt sick. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, pain pulsing behind his eyes and at his temples. He tried to move, groaning again as he felt the rope around his chest tighten, holding him firmly in place. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. 

It was dark.

Not the gentle-half dark of the orb’s night cycle, but pitch black. The sort of darkness that suggested there had never been anything else to begin with. No bulbs flickered overhead. No stars twinkled beyond glass. There was nothing but darkness, complete and seemingly infinite.

Had he gone blind? The headache that crawled across the inside of his skull suggested that whatever had been in the hypospray had not been good. There was a dryness to his mouth and a bone-crushing exhaustion that spoke of endocrine disruption. His skin felt almost as if it were too tight, his hands too big, his limbs too long. Mind sluggish, Julian began to sort through all the possibilities; whatever his assailant had used was inelegant and improperly prepared. After a moment—one Julian thought embarrassingly long—he had narrowed the contents of the hypospray down to three potential candidates. None of them good. With some luck, he would regain his sight, but it would take time. 

And time was a luxury he did not have. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Minutes? Hours? 

Closing his eyes, Julian took a deep breath and listened. He was still in the Hothouse, that much was certain. He could hear the whisper of the wind against foliage; smell the musty heat of the soil and the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine; feel the humid air claw against his skin. His feet brushed against stone, mapping the even spacing of patio slabs and the thin mortar between. 

Julian swallowed. He knew exactly where he was; he’d been here before, he was sure of it. Only last time, he had been on his knees, tending to a body now little more than dust. 

A chill stole over him as another possibility occurred. 

Poison. 

Panic began to tighten his chest. His breaths became sharp, staccato, each one leaving Julian to wonder if it would be his last. If this was how Williams had felt before he had keeled over onto the cold stone floor.

Was this it? Was this how he died? Tied to a chair, helpless and alone amongst the flora of a world he had been sent to destroy?

The thought was unbearable. Moreso given that he had left Garak, _his_ Garak, without so much as a farewell. He remembered their final meeting, the look on Garak’s face as he had been torn away, time and space bending and changing around him. 

His mind stuttered to a halt. The look on Garak’s face. 

Julian swallowed. It had been one of horror. Now he knew why; Garak had poisoned him. Sent him the same way as Williams. It made a sickening sort of sense, now that he thought about it. Garak, a man of many masks, all of them lies, had let one slip, revealing what lay beneath; the knowledge that he had murdered a friend long before they had ever met. That their lives, their friendship (perhaps even their love, unrequited) had all been leading to this. To his death at a pair of unwitting hands, his body little more than dust on a long-gone world. 

Cold sweat dripped down the hollow of his spine at the thought. 

Then, a voice cut through the cloud of panic. Julian blinked, more out of habit than practicality, searching for its origin; he could see nothing in the darkness. No shadows, no shapes. But the voice was unmistakable, and not the one he had expected. 

“Good evening, Dr Jal. How nice of you to finally join me.” 

“Sloan?”

“I apologise for the rough treatment, Doctor, but it seemed like the best solution.” Sloan chuckled at his own joke. “Though perhaps not for you.”

A wave of nausea rolled over Julian. He swallowed hard, wishing desperately for a glass of water. His tongue felt thick and unwieldy in his mouth.

Perhaps he had been wrong about Garak. Wrong about what had been in the hypospray. His thoughts were jumbled, his mind sluggish, moving with all the speed of treacle. The panic had begun to abate, settling into a low rumble of unease. He took a deep breath and willed himself to concentrate. 

“What time is it?” Julian asked. 

Sloan ignored the question. 

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve given you, Doctor?” he replied. His voice echoed across the clearing, bouncing off the glass walls of the Hothouse. The effect was disorientating. “Or have you formed your own diagnosis?”

“Most likely motrazine, and about fifteen micrograms too much.” Julian shook his head, as though trying to clear the cobwebs that smothered his brain. “Were you trying to kill me, or was it just incompetence?”

There was a nasty pause. 

“If I’d wanted you dead, Dr Jal,” Sloan said, deathly calm, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

Julian groaned. “Lucky me.”

The sound of chair legs scraping against stone filled the air. It was followed by the rustle of clothing and the hiss of air from a cushion. Sloan had sat down. Somewhere in front of him, Julian guessed. Three, maybe four feet away, from the volume. 

“Do you know why I wanted to talk to you?” Sloan asked, his tone light, conversational.

“No idea,” Julian replied. 

He swallowed again, thick tongue rough against the roof of his mouth. His expression must have broadcast his discomfort, for a few moments later, he felt cold glass press against his lips. 

“Drink, Doctor.” 

Julian shook his head. His mouth ached at the prospect, but even through the fuzz of the drugs he had been given, he knew accepting anything from Sloan was a bad idea. 

“No thank you.”

Sloan laughed. “Whilst I admire your caution, its only water. As I said before, if I’d wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be here.”

And with that, Sloan tipped the glass, sending the contents cascading across Julian’s chin and down his chest. It was freezing. Julian gasped in surprise, coughing and spluttering as the water filled his mouth and lungs. Sloan pulled away, allowing Julian to catch his breath before holding the glass up to his mouth once more. This time, Julian didn’t hesitate; if the water had been tampered with, it was too late now. It felt like heaven against his parched lips, and he drank greedily. 

“Better?” asked Sloan once Julian had drained the glass. 

Julian gave a small, tight nod. His head had begun to clear, the pain behind his eyes receding to a manageable level. 

“Good. Now perhaps we can continue with our discussion.” Julian heard the whisper of Sloan’s clothing as he returned to his seat. “You are not Dr Sadiq Jal.”

A cold dread settled in Julian’s stomach. He fought not to let it show on his face; Sloan would be watching his every expression, searching for a hint of deception. He schooled his features into a look of ersatz surprise and said, “I’m not? That’s news to me.”

“Are you sure? A new Doctor, supposedly drafted in from a research station on Rigel V, yet brought here by the USS McClintock? Forgive me, but it does look suspicious.” The creak of weight shifting upon the chair filled the air. “It would have been more convincing to select a research institution theMcClintock had visited. According to Starfleet logs, the USS McClintock last ventured into Rigelian space over four years ago. Sloppy work. Without the first lie, I must confess, I probably wouldn’t have discovered the second.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Julian replied. 

“No? Then allow me to explain. You were not stationed on Rigel V. “ He paused. “Nor were you on the McClintock, despite being listed on the crew roster. I spoke with one of the crew, who claims that not only did Dr Jal leave the McClintock’s service three days ago, but did so under unfortunate circumstances. Dr Jal is in a persistent vegitative state. One from which, I have been assured by the McClintock’s acting CMO, he is unlikely to recover.” Another pause. “Forgive me, but you look surprisingly well for a man in a coma.” 

Julian remained silent. There was no avoiding the accusation. He flexed his fingers, feeling the rope that held him tight to the chair. It was rough, the fibres artificial and almost sharp against his skin. There was no give. No wiggle room. Freedom would require a knife, or something equally sharp. 

“What do you want?” Julian asked.

“I want to know where the hybrids are,” said Sloan. “Your little demonstration of their effectiveness on Agent Williams was a nice, but unnecessary touch. We know he was close to discovering their location. And regardless, all the information he obtained is on file.” 

“What?” Julian replied, confused.

He had expected… Well, in truth, he had no idea what he had expected. But whatever it had been, it wasn’t that. 

Julian blinked. Shapes were slowly starting to form in his vision. Shadows, highlighted by the phosgenes that danced in the blackness. His system was beginning to clear the last of the drug; it wouldn’t be long, Julian calculated, before his vision fully returned. Not for the first time, he was thankful for his augmented status, allowing him to clear the toxin in his system more quickly than his non-modified counterparts. 

Sloan would not be aware of his genetic status, nor the extraordinarily fast metabolism it endowed him with. It was something he could use to his advantage. 

“Are you deaf, or simply stupid?” Sloan said after a moment. 

“What I am is at a loss,” Julian replied, careful to continue to stare into the middle distance. “Perhaps I’d be able to answer your questions if I knew what the hell you were talking about.”

“The hybrids, Doctor. Where are they?”

What hybrids? Whatever Sloan wanted was beyond Julian’s remit. They were stood upon a planet full of plants; if Sloan wanted to know about a hybrid, he would have to be more specific. There had to be thousands here. Hundreds in the Hothouse, alone. 

Julian watched from the corner of his eye as a shadow began to move. He blinked and Sloan swam into view, cast in black and white and slightly blurry around the edges. In Sloan’s hand, there was a small specimen jar. 

“Do you know what this is?” said Sloan.

“How am I supposed to know when I can’t see?” Julian replied, injecting as much scorn in his voice as he could. He kept his eyes fixed dead ahead. 

“It’s a petal from one of the hybrids.” Julian heard the soft clink as Sloan set the specimen jar down upon the stone. “But you don’t need me to tell you that, Doctor, given that I found it upon your desk. I’m sure your Cardassian handlers have impressed upon you its importance.”

“My Cardassian handlers?”

A nasty smile spread across Sloan’s features. “No need to be coy. The Federation is aware of your traitorous activities.”

“I’m not working for the Cardassian Union.”

“If you expect me to believe that, Dr Jal, then you’re stupider than I thought.”

“It’s the truth.”

Slowly, things were beginning to click into place. Julian could feel the gears of his brain whirring as he sorted through the information Sloan had unwittingly given him. The petal he had found on Williams’ body was from a hybrid. _The_ hybrid. 

But a hybrid of what? 

He thought back to a conversation that had taken place two days earlier. The one he had overheard as he had crouched in the foliage, still slightly disoriented from temporal displacement. Garak had mentioned hybrids. Edosian Orchids, too, famously red. Famously deadly. 

They were a passion of Garak’s, Julian knew. His quarters were home to several pots of them, as had been his garden back on Cardassia Prime. He had grown them during his time at the Romulan Embassy, too; they had been speciality of his, at least according to Odo. And, if the shapeshifter were to be believed, he had used them to kill a Proconsul. 

Julian had received an orchid for his 32nd birthday—a better gift than the one Garak had given him for his 30th, he had to admit, but one that had not lasted. Gardening had never been a skill Julian had acquired, and the orchid had wilted within the month, shedding leaves and petals in a halo upon his desk. The look of disappointment upon Garak’s face at the sight had been one Julian had not forgotten. 

The petal in the specimen jar did bear a passing resemblance to those of the orchid he had been given. They were the same shade, certainly, and had a similar webbing of veins beneath the surface. The edges of the petal frilled the like orchid’s, too.

Similar enough to lead him to suspect he knew one half of the mystery petal’s parentage, at least. But the other half? It could be anything. 

Still, something tugged and pulled at the Doctor’s memory. He had seen petals shaped like the one in the jar before. But where? And the what of the dust? Edosian orchids were deadly, yes, but left their victims whole and unblemished. 

The dust, thought Julian. The dust was the key. 

“Where are the hybrids?” Sloan’s voice cut across his thoughts. “We know they were bred here. The forests of Cardassia Prime are little more than dust, as are both Galru and Kestian. Only the globe remains, therefore, the hybrids could only have been bred here.” 

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. 

Garak’s book. _The Flower of the Patrician_. The answer to this mess was there, in the subtext, the mystery. 

Rikba Ilnal had taken plants to three worlds: Kestian, Galru, and Omigos 15. And of those worlds, only Omigos 15 remained, the others long lost to dust. She had left Cardassia Prime with three Lakatian heliconias—the last three—her ship filled with the scent of their beautiful star-shaped blossom.

Julian’s mind stuttered to a halt. 

Star-shaped blossom. The same shape as the petal in the jar. The same shape, Julian realised, as the plant Garak had rescued from the Hothouse two days ago. Without genotyping, Julian couldn’t be sure, but the phenotype… Hybrids. Heliconias and orchids. And the result a poison that brought both death and dust. 

A poison that left no trace. A weapon as terrifying in the hands of Section 31 as it was the Obsidian Order. He suppressed a shudder of horror. 

It had all become so terribly clear. He knew now why he had been sent to Omigos 15, why he had been commanded to destory it. 

Why the world would end if he didn’t. 

“Why do you want them?” Julian asked, hoping to confirm his theory. 

“I believe I am the one asking the questions here, Dr Jal.”

“And yet you haven’t even asked me my name.”

Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not in the market for having my time wasted.”

“Pity.”

Sloan shifted in his chair. Julian watched, unblinking, as Sloan leant forward, his expression one of menace. In his hands, Julian saw the metallic glint of a knife. 

“The hybrids, Dr Jal. I would prefer not to have to resort to more forceful methods of persuasion.”

Colour was beginning to bleed back into Julian’s vision. No longer in greyscale, he could see soft golden glow of the emergency lighting between the green on the trees. The sky was beginning to lighten—it would not be long until dawn. 

Time was running out. 

Release looked increasingly out of the question; all Julian could do was keep Sloan talking. Keep him occupied until the reactor detonated. If he had to die along with the hybrids, so be it. It was a small price to pay to prevent the horror such a poison would unleash upon the galaxy. To prevent an apocalypse. 

“I don’t know where the hybrids are,” Julian said.

“And yet there was a petal from one on your desk.”

“I found it on Thomas Williams’ body.”

“A body that has now conveniently disappeared,” Sloan countered.

“I had nothing to do with it.” 

“No?” 

Sloane stood and closed the distance between them. He leant forward, positioning the knife beneath Julian’s chin. Unable to help himself, Julian’s eyes flickered downward, watching the blade press against his throat. Sloan saw the movement. A nasty smile crept across his features. 

“I think you did,” said Sloan, his cold eyes boring into Julian’s. “Not directly. Your Cardassian master saw to that.”

“What? Neic?”

“_Ta’kak’s_ cover has been blown. We know Tain sent him to breed the hybrids. He’s a man of many talents, the Tailor.”

Julian swallowed. “I wouldn’t know.”

“About the hybrids or his talents?”

“Neither.”

Sloan pressed the blade gently into the tender hollow of Julian’s throat with just enough pressure to nick the skin. The pain was sharp, and Julian could feel the slow trickle of blood down his adam’s apple. 

“Now I find that hard to believe,” said Sloan. “What did Tain do to convince you to switch sides? What did he promise you? Freedom? Latinum?” A pause. “His son?”

“I don’t work for Tain.”

“But you do work for his son,” Sloan persisted. 

“I work for Dr Mosh Zarr. And the last time I checked, he was a Bolian.”

Sloan sighed theatrically. There was a slight increase of pressure upon the knife, another stab of pain, and then Sloan withdrew. He trailed the knife down the side of Julian’s throat, coming to rest at the point where his neck met his collarbone. Swiftly, he sliced the edge along the exposed skin. Not too deep. Just enough to hurt. 

Julian cried out as the pain, hot and sharp, blossomed across his collarbone. 

“I can see we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” said Sloan. “Pity. I do hate getting my hands dirty.”

Movement caught Julian’s eye. Something in the trees, to the left of Sloan. The silhouette of a man creeping through the foliage.

“Then it is fortunate for you that I have come to save you the trouble.”

There was the sound of a phaser and Sloan crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Garak materialised from the shadows. He gave a formal sort of nod as he stepped over Sloan’s prone form. 

“Good morning, Doctor.”  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
Garak did not untie Julian. Nor did he speak. He simply sat across from the Doctor, his hands folded in his lap, and watched.

“Please, listen to me,” said Julian. “We have to leave.”

The glass of the globe was beginning to turn opaque, a golden glow shining from within as night turned to day. The bomb Julian had rigged was due to blow shortly after the start of First Quarter, now mere minutes away. 

If they had any hope of survival, they had to get off Omigos 15 now. 

“The globe is going to explode. Come First Quarter, it will be obliterated whether we’re on it or not.”

Still Garak did not speak. He cast a quick glance at the prone form of Sloan, still unconscious, a phaser burn upon his back. 

“I know who you are, who you work for. Your name is Elim Garak, member of the Obsidian Order, protege of Enabran Tain.” Julian fought against his bonds. “And I know you killed Thomas Williams.” 

A flicker of surprise crossed Garak’s features, but it was quickly gone, hidden once more behind his stony, silent mask. 

Julian sagged against the chair, feeling what little hope he had of leaving the globe in one piece escape him. He needed to get Garak to listen to him. To believe him. Or, at the very least, show a healthy amount of self-preservation. 

More light began to shine from the globe’s shell, blocking out the stars that twinkled beyond the glass. 

He wondered what would happen to him were he to die here on Omigos 15. How would Captain Sisko explain his sudden and permanent absence? Would his mission remain classified? Or would Starfleet openly acknowledge his sacrifice? 

Though, admittedly, from his perspective, said sacrifice looked more like foolishness. 

Another, more disturbing thought occurred. What would happen to Garak? To the deeds he had done, both for Cardassia and the Federation? For all his talk of being plain and simple, Garak was anything but. His work for the Order, and later exile upon Deep Space Nine, had elevated him to a position of influence upon the fortunes of his home planet and its enemies. 

If Garak died, it would change things. More to the point, it would change _him_.

He couldn’t let that happen. He had to try a different tact. Anything was better than silence. At least if Julian got him talking, there was a chance he might begin to listen. 

“Rikba Ilnal,” he said after a moment. “I know what she’s guilty of. I worked it out.”

Garak blinked. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Ilnal. The protagonist from the Enigma Tale you saw me reading yesterday. I know what she is guilty of.”

Garak shifted in his seat. His affected air of nonchalance was beginning to slip. Julian could see the cracks around the eyes; they sparkled, dangerous and blue. 

“And what would that be?”

“Murder.”

Garak gave him an amused look. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of reading that particular tale. However, I’m sure the list of her sins is far longer than a single, solitary murder. Literary standards demand it.”

“She killed a planet.”

Garak’s eyes hardened. He stood, looming over Julian. His hair, loosened from his customary knot, flowed over his shoulders as he bent forward. Julian felt the silky strands brush against his knees. 

“Is this some form of twisted Terran humour?”

Julian ignored Garak’s question. “Well, she killed two planets, technically. And her friends. All turned to dust. Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“You shouldn’t take such stories so literally.”

“That was my mistake,” said Julian. “I thought I was missing something at the beginning. My grasp of Kardassi is, whilst better than most, still less than perfect. I thought I was missing some nuance. That I didn’t understand the metaphor. But it isn’t one; the dust is literal, caused by the Lakatian heliconias.” He stared at Garak, face triumphant. “And it’s how you did it, too. How you killed that Section 31 agent.”

A nasty smile broke across Garak’s face. 

“Not quite, Doctor.”

“No. Not quite,” Julian replied. “You’re better than Ilnal. You made something new. Something no one has ever seen before. You crossed Edosian orchids with Lakatian heliconias, and made hybrid more deadly than its parents.”

“I’m a gardener. Breeding novel species is my job.”

“Funny, I thought you were a Tailor.”

Garak glanced down at Julian’s bonds, at the cut that wept at his neck, and said, “You do look like you’re in need of a new suit, Doctor.” He stepped closer, his hands braced upon Julian’s knees, claws digging warningly into his flesh. “Out of interest, what _did_ Tain offer you?” he asked, repeating Sloan’s earlier refrain.

“Nothing. I don’t work for Tain.”

“There is no need to lie to me. I know he sent you, and I know why. It’s so obvious even a child could see it.” Garak’s breath was hot against Julian’s lips. “Who else would know my tastes? My predilections? My weaknesses? And you, my dear, are all of them rolled into one.” He smiled. “He sent you to test me. To test my loyalty to the Order. Why else would you have that particular book in your possession? Tain sent you as a distraction—a pretty little Federation Agent to pique my interest, steal my secrets. Unfortunately for you, Doctor, I am not so easily corrupted.”

“I don’t work for your father,” Julian repeated. 

Garak’s hand shot out as quick as a viper, clamping around Julian’s throat. Julian instantly knew he had made a mistake. Garak’s eyes were wild, his face a picture of rage. But his voice, when he spoke, was calm. Collected. 

“What hold does he have over you, I wonder? A Terran. So hard to blackmail a species so shameless. So few taboos. Tell me, is it money, or some deeper transgression?”

Julian swallowed, feeling Garak’s fingers tighten around his neck. The Cardassian’s eyes bored into Julilan’s, watching for a hint of deception. 

“Tain doesn’t own me, Garak,” Julian said. “And one day, he won’t own you.”

“How do you know what the future holds?”

“I’ve seen it.” He gasped for breath. “When First Quarter begins, the bomb I’ve constructed beneath the floor of this Hothouse will explode, and will take everything on this globe with it. You. Me. Sloan. The last Lakatian Heliconia and the hybrids you made.”

Garak’s fingers tightened further.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? Do you really want to risk it?” He looked imploringly into Garak’s eyes. “Do you honestly think it would please Tain to know you lost everything? The punishment will be so much worse than being locked in a cupboard. He will bury you alive.” 

Garak’s eyes widened. The fear of Tain, of walls closing in on him was apparent on his face. Garak’s claustrophobia was as crippling now as it had been upon Deep Space Nine; if anything, age had softened the response.

“Untie me, Garak,” Julian croaked. “Please.”

But Garak wasn’t listening. A low rumbling had begun beneath their feet. The distant peel of bells sounded the start of First Quarter. It was too late. 

They were going to die. 

“Garak!” Julian shouted, but his words were lost as the world began to twist around him. 

He felt Garak’s hand release his neck as the glass of the Terran Hothouse shattered with a great crack. There was the sound of screaming. Of transporters. 

And then there was nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

  
  
  


>   
**Personal Log. Dr Julian Bashir. #3068871...3072517**
> 
> I had never thought of Garak as a gardener. But what do I know? I'd never really thought of him as vulnerable, either. 
> 
> Perhaps I don’t think nearly enough. 
> 
> I’m sure Garak would agree.  


  
  


**\---..---**

  
  
Julian returned to Deep Space Nine as the night shift began. The Infirmary was quiet. Just as well, as Julian had winked back into existence in a graceless heap on the floor. Nurse Jabara, tired from a long day, barely blinked as she helped him to his feet.

“Good evening, Dr Bashir,” she said. “Would you like me to inform the Captain of your return?”

Julian blinked. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat bringing with it a wave of nausea.

He had survived. He had felt the ground tear apart beneath him; heard the glass of the Hothouse shatter; smelled the ozone that signaled the coming wave of plasma. And yet he had survived. He had returned to Deep Space Nine in one piece.

The wound at his collarbone stung as Jabara brushed him down. 

Well, almost one piece. 

“Dr Bashir?” Nurse Jabara repeated. “Julian?”

He blinked again. He could still feel Garak’s hands around his neck. His thoughts were a jumble of sights and sounds. He tried to piece together what had happened. Had Garak escaped? Had Sloan? 

Julian didn’t know. 

“I have to see Garak,” he said, extricating himself from the nurse’s iron-like grip, fleeing from the Infirmary as quick as his shaky legs would carry him. “I… I have to go.” 

It didn’t take Julian long to arrive at the habitat ring. His mind raced; his chest ached as several emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Anger warred with fear. Hope with dread. Desire with disgust. 

He stood outside Garak’s door and gave the emergency override. He had to see Garak. Ensure that he was alive and breathing before he bloody well killed him. 

The door opened with a hiss, and Julian took a step forward. Soft light filtered out from Garak’s quarters along with a wave of heat and a familiar scent. There was the sound of music, light and delicate. And upon the sofa, book in hand, sat Garak. He was glaring. 

Relief flooded him. Garak, _his_ Garak, with his short hair and grey nails and his slightly stockier figure. Just as he remembered him. 

Julian hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. 

“Can I come in?”

“The question is a little redundant, wouldn’t you say, given that you have already overriden the lock on my door.”

Julian took a step forward, into the heat. Garak’s gaze was wary, fixed upon him as he made his way over to the sofa. He did not sit. Instead, he came to a halt across from Garak, careful to keep the coffee table between them. Julian glanced down and saw an almost empty bottle of kanar by the foot of the sofa. A glass, half full, rested on the occasional table by Garak’s side. 

Gaze returning to Garak, he noted the slight glassiness of his eyes. The overly precise nature of his movements. The shake in his hands as he set his book upon the coffee table. 

“You’re drunk.”

“Hardly,” Garak replied. “It would take more than half a bottle of kanar, my dear Doctor, let me assure you.”

“Garak…”

The Cardassian shook his head. A small, tight smile curled about his lips. It did not reach his eyes. 

“It’s late, and you have had a very long day. Perhaps it would be best to leave this conversation for another time.”

“If we don’t talk now, we never will.”

“I fail to see the downside.”

Julian snapped. “Garak, what happened on Omigos 15—”

The Cardassian held up a hand in interruption. “Happened a very long time ago, Doctor. Perhaps not for you, but certainly for me, and I have no wish to spend an evening reminiscing." 

“We almost died!” Julian shouted, remembering the heat of the explosion as he had been whisked away through time and space, back to Deep Space Nine. 

“But we did not,” Garak said, before nodding in the direction of Julian’s collarbone. “You really ought to see to that cut before you begin bleeding onto my carpet.”

A flash of white-hot anger bubbled up inside Julian. How could the man be so calm? They’d almost died. Garak had almost killed him. If it hadn’t been for the temporal displacement...

“Damn your carpet, Garak!”

With a look of disappointment, Garak gestured to the sofa, lips pursed as he waited expectantly for Julian to comply. Several minutes passed before the Doctor acquiesced. He offered Julian a glass of kanar before heading off into the bathroom. He returned with a washcloth and a small med-kit. 

"If you really must insist on staying, then I will not have you bleeding all over the furniture. I'd rather not spend my evenings trying to remove the stains from the upholstery."

"I can fix it myself,” the Doctor grumbled.

"Then why haven't you?"

Julian felt himself deflate under the weight of Garak’s stare. 

"It… it just didn't seem important."

"Evidently."

Garak was surprisingly gentle. He peeled back the blood-soaked jacket of Julian’s uniform, pausing briefly to mutter something about the apparent inevitability of unflattering workwear, before leaning in to assess the damage. The cut, though not deep, was long and bled profusely. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have access to a dermal regenerator,” he said, dabbing at the injury with a damp cloth. “So we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way, unless of course, you fancy heading back up to the Infirmary?” 

“If you think you’re getting away that easily, you’re mistaken,” Julian replied, wincing as Garak wiped across the cut. 

“I thought that might be your answer. How disappointing.”

Slowly, with a little direction from Julian, Garak taped together the edges of the wound, his nimble fingers making short work of the closures. Julian had the distinct impression that this was something Garak had done before. Perhaps this had been part of his Order training. Or maybe he had simply dealt with enough of his own injuries. 

"I never did work out what happened to you after I beamed out. There were no casualties listed, and given that Sloan managed to survive the ordeal, I thought it likely you had, too," said Garak as he recycled the used med-kit. His face was an impassive mask. “Of course, now it all makes sense—or, at the very least, as much sense as time travel ever does. I must confess, the question drove me to distraction for a good number of years.”

It wasn’t an apology, but Julian had not expected one. He knew Garak too well for that. 

“Only that question?” he said. 

“The answers to the others were entirely too obvious to bother with.”

“Such as?”

Garak deflected the question, eyeing Julian’s blood-stained shirt with distaste. “Remove that. I’ll find you something else to wear.”

As Garak strode off into his bedroom, Julian took a shaky breath. The anger he felt still simmered beneath the surface, but it felt distant to him. Unimportant. He was tired. Tired of this dance between himself and Garak, of the lies they told one another across the replimat table. Of the way he so dominated his thoughts, both asleep and awake. 

Garak had left him to die. And yet the attraction he felt for him did not abate. Neither, he was galled to admit, did the love.

He took another deep breath and leant back against the sofa. His first thought was how plain Garak’s cushions were. An unassuming grey, they blended in with the fabric of the sofa, becoming almost invisible. 

It was a strange thing to notice. 

Blinking, Julian turned his attention to the rest of Garak’s quarters. Though this was not the first time he had ventured inside, it was the first time he had been left unobserved. It was almost excessively plain; utilitarian, empty, like a hotel room or a display in a furniture shop. The carpet was a little worn in places, the telltale marks of paths well trodden forming an arc between the replicator and sofa, the bathroom and bedroom doors. There were, however, some small signs of personality. One of Ziyal’s sketches hung framed upon the far wall. A sewing kit on the sideboard. And upon the far wall, on a shelf beside the porthole, sat a small orchid, its bright red petals just beginning to unfurl. 

An Edosian orchid. 

“I worked it out,” said Julain as Garak reappeared, a simple green tunic in his hands. “What you did.”

"I'd be disappointed if you hadn't," Garak replied, taking a seat beside Julian. 

“The answer was in the book you gave me.” 

Julian took the proffered item of clothing with little fuss. The fabric was soft and smelt of Garak. Of spiced oils and scales. Julian eased himself into it, mindful of the twinge of pain at his collar. Made for Cardassian shoulders, the neckline was much too wide, and it hung from him oddly, threatening to slip down his arms as he sat back against the drab grey cushions.

A sudden thought occured to Julian. 

“You didn’t know Tain was your father, did you? That’s why you reacted the way you did in the Hothouse.” 

He watched as Garak’s gaze dropped briefly to his neck, to the bruises Julian had little doubt had already begun to blossom over his skin. He thought he saw a brief flicker of remorse in the Cardassian’s gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. 

“Aren’t you clever?”

“I’m flattered you’ve noticed,” Julian replied. “Well? Is it true?”

“You should know better than to ask me that.”

They were close. He could feel Garak’s breath on his lips as he spoke. It smelt sweet, like kanar, and was almost as intoxicating. Julian’s eyes were locked on Garak’s. 

“You killed a man for that information.”

“I killed him because he insulted me,” Garak replied simply, as though it were nothing unusual. Perhaps, for Garak, it wasn’t. “He insulted my intelligence with his pathetic offer of sanctuary.”

“Liar.”

Garak tilted his head to one side, his amicable smile replaced with an altogether more serious expression. 

“Does it disgust you, Doctor? The knowledge that I would so readily kill over such an insignificant offense?”

“Who you are, Garak, is not a surprise to me.”

“No?”

“Who you are now is different from the man you were,” Julian replied with absolute conviction. 

“You don’t think I would make the same decisions now?” said Garak. His eyes stared intently into Julian’s, irises little more than thin rings of blue around wide, black pupils. “You don’t think I would strike down those who I find offensive without the slightest hesitation or remorse?”

"No."

"Then you're a fool, Doctor," he whispered. 

“I’m readily aware,” Julian replied. “But you are different, Garak. As much as you wish to deny it, you are not the same man you were on Omigos 15.”

An agonised look passed across Garak’s face. “I would have killed you, Doctor,” said Garak. “Make no mistake. If there had been no bomb, I would have poisoned you and left you to die on the floor of that Hothouse.”

_Would have_. Past tense. 

“But not now.”

Garak made a pained noise in the back of his throat. With an unexpected swiftness, he rose from the sofa, retreating to the far side of the room. He stood by the porthole, his hand resting lightly upon the shelf where the orchid sat, gazing out at the stars. 

There was a pause. Julian watched as Garak took a deep breath. 

“When I was fifteen years old, my father took me to the forests of the Ba’aten Peninsula,” he said, his voice shaking. “He was a gardener by trade, and had a fondness for Edosian orchids. Rare upon most of Cardassia, they grew upon the peninsula like weeds, filling every crack and crevice with sprays of beautiful red flowers. And the scent of them! Like sugar and spice and sweet kanar.

“The night before we were to return to Cardassia City, to Paldar and my uncle’s house, we walked along the moonlit bank of the Ba’atel river and took four orchids from the rocks by the falls. One for each of our household. Whilst my mother, I knew, would appreciate the gift. It was my uncle whose approval I truly sought to gain.”

It was almost unbearably intimate to hear Garak speak of his past. In the privacy of his quarters, with no-one to hear his words but Julian, it felt like a confession. Julian the priest and Garak the penitent. It was a trap Garak had set before, back when he had told him stories of a man called Elim in the darkness. But this time it felt different. Like a gift, or perhaps an apology. 

It felt like the truth. 

Julian took a step towards Garak. And another. And another, until he stood behind him, almost close enough to touch. He heard Garak’s breathing hitch as he placed a hand over his. Julian eased his fingers between Garak’s, watching as his head lolled back. Garak gasped, his eyes fluttering shut as Julian began to stroke the delicate skin that stretched between finger and thumb. Still, Garak continued with his story. His confession.

“The orchids, you see, are valued not just for their beauty, but also for the poison that runs sickly sweet from their nectar. And whilst my uncle appreciated the orchid’s fine aesthetics, it was the poison, instant and almost undetectable, that he truly valued.

“My uncle kept the orchid, my gift to him, for four years. And then, when I was old enough to set out alone, when my Order training was complete, he sent me with it to Omigos 15. To cultivate it. To breed it. To bring him back a new gift. One that could help him rise to his rightful place at the head of the Order.”

“That’s how you killed Williams, wasn’t it?” Julian said, so close to Garak that he could feel the heat of him through the front of his borrowed tunic. 

“Promazine,” said Garak. “That was my gift to Tain. To Cardassia.”

“From the hybrids,” Julian replied.

“I am nothing if not my father’s son.”

“Your father the gardner? Or your father the spy?”

"Both," he said, his thumb ghosting across the hollow of Julian’s palm. "Neither. Whichever makes you most comfortable."

"I want the truth."

Garak turned to face him. His eyes were wide. His breathing shallow.

“Elim Garak died in that explosion. And that _is_ the truth, Doctor,” said Garak. “He died and was buried alongside his father, with only orchids for a monument.”

Julian’s hand cupped Garak’s face, his thumb smoothing over the ridges that decorated his jaw. The scales were silky smooth beneath his skin.

“Then what does that make you?”

“A ghost,” he said. “A shadow.” His eyes closed. “A memory.” 

“Not to me,” said Julian, and he captured Garak’s lips with his own. 

A wave of prickling heat rolled over him as he felt Garak’s tongue flicker against his lower lip. He moaned, his hands rising to cup the Cardassian’s jaw as he deepened the kiss. It was wet and messy, all finesse sacrificed in his haste to taste him, to explore Garak’s clever mouth and tongue. 

Julian felt hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer until they were flush. He could feel the hard planes and ridges of Garak’s body against him, the heave of his chest, the pounding of his heart beneath fabric and scales. 

Suddenly it was too much. In a single, swift movement, Julian pushed Garak against the wall, bracing his hands either side of the Cardassian’s wide shoulders. To his surprise, Garak didn’t resist. Instead, he simply looked at Julian, wide-eyed and panting, as though the wall were the only thing keeping him from sinking to his knees. 

“Not to me,” Julian repeated softly. 

Their lips met in another kiss. This one gentle, tentative. So full of emotion, Julian felt the ache of it deep in his chest. Bittersweet. 

“I’m sorry,” Garak murmured against Julian’s lips. “I’m sorry I left you.”

Unsure of what to say, Julian deepened the kiss, changing it from a light, almost chaste brush of lips to something more fierce, demanding. His tongue begged for entry into Garak’s mouth, flickering at the seam of his lips until he acquiesced. Garak gasped, a low, rumbling groan emanating from his chest as Julian’s tongue tangled with his own. 

Julian pressed himself against Garak, one hand at his jaw, the other tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until he didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Julian could feel the heat radiating off Garak in waves, bringing with it the scent of spice and the sweet oil he used on his scales. He could feel plains and ridges pressed hard against him; the alien topography of Garak’s body ignited within him an intense hunger. He wanted to see how they differed. Wanted to touch him. Kiss each defining feature until Garak begged not for forgiveness, but for the heat of his mouth and the caress of his fingertips.

Sparks of pleasure shot through him as he felt Garak’s hands dig into the cheeks of his arse, pulling their hips tightly together. The hard length of Julian’s cock pressed into the slight curve of Garak’s belly; moans swallowed as he continued to ravage his mouth, his hands descended to the Cardassian’s neck ridges, stroking and pinching and pulling until the volume of Garak’s moans began to rival his own.

Panting, Garak broke the kiss, pulling back a fraction to meet Julian’s gaze. His cheeks were flushed a dark blue, his lips kiss-swollen and slick, his eyes wild. Julian felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of him, at the knowledge that he had done that to the unflappable Cardassian. Had brought down his guard so thoroughly, so completely, that the mask had slipped. No longer the tailor, or the gardener, or the spy: all Julian could see was the man, Elim Garak. 

A man far too solid to be anything but real. 

“I want you,” Julian whispered, a desperate edge to his voice. “Here. Now.” 

Julian felt his back slam against the floor as Garak pulled them both down, his hands braced either side of Julian’s head as he settled himself between his legs. Julian’s breath hitched as Garak bent down to capture his lips, the heavy, rocking weight of him creating a maddening friction against his aching cock. The kiss was almost bruising in its intensity, peppered with bites that threatened to break the skin. Julian’s lips felt tender, sore, but he didn’t want Garak to stop. 

Julian took Garak’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard. He was rewarded with a ragged moan; one that intensified as his hands slipped beneath Garak’s tunic to caress the soft, vulnerable scales of his belly before heading lower across the silk of his trousers. A damp patch stretched across the front, slick with fluid that leaked from the Cardassian’s genital slit. Garak growled as Julian traced the opening beneath the damp cloth, seemingly powerless to prevent the eversion of his cock under the Doctor’s relentless onslaught.

Julian’s eyes widened and his hand slipped beneath the waistband of Garak’s trousers, fingers grasping hungrily at Garak’s slick cock. It felt different to his own. Longer; thinner; hardened ridges ran from root to tip. Ridges that were incredibly sensitive, if the way Garak gasped was any indication. 

Suddenly, Garak rolled onto his back, bringing Julian with him so that their positions were reversed. The angle now awkward, he withdrew his hand from Garak’s trousers and set about removing his tunic, eager to reveal the expanse of grey scales that lay beneath. 

Garak was more muscular than Julian had anticipated. The tailoring of his tunics had hidden it well, just as they had the layer of fat that clung to his belly—a testament to middle age and a sedentary lifestyle, but no less enticing, no less beautiful than the rest of him. He looked powerful. Dangerous. And it made Julian ache with want. 

Making short work of Garak’s trousers, he turned his attention to his own clothes, hastily divesting himself of his borrowed tunic and the remains of his medical uniform. He watched with pleasure as Garak stared, breathing hard, a faint sheen of sweat upon his grey scales. 

Unable to conceal the hunger he felt, Julian bit down sharply upon Garak’s neck ridge, his hand sliding down his body to palm his slick cock. Julian felt it twitch in his hand, the desperate little sounds Garak couldn’t help but make coming louder, faster, as his fingers began to move further southwards, into the slick opening of Garak’s genital slit to probe gently, teasingly at the tight ring of muscle he knew sat below. 

Whilst Julian’s knowledge of Cardassian sexual practice was not as thorough as he’d have liked, he knew that the mechanics of it were similar to those of Humans. It was amazing what information could be gleaned from partially deleted medical records and the odd romance novel. 

Garak gasped as Julian pushed one long finger inside of him. His back arched on the addition of another. And by the third, Julian thought he might begin to beg. Slowly, he teased his fingers in and out, watching as Garak moaned and writhed beneath him, his fists clenched and his face taut. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. 

Julian cried out as he thrust into Garak, sheathing himself in one hard, deep stroke. A shock of pure pleasure ripped through him as he felt Garak’s internal muscles clench tightly around him, sparks dancing behind his eyelids. It felt like nothing he had experienced before; the flesh that encased him was a little cooler than he had expected, and slicker than it had any right to be. But the novelty of the experience went beyond the purely physiological. There was an undercurrent to Garak’s movements that felt frantic, almost desperate, and it filled Julian with fire. 

Julian set a punishing rhythm, quick and hard, a hand gripping Garak’s hips as he fucked him. With each thrust, Julian watched the muscles of Garak’s chest cord and flex, watched his hands fist against the carpet. The scales that decorated the ridges of Garak’s neck had deepened to a blue so dark they seemed almost black. The ridge that ran down his sternum had darkened, too, bisecting his chest into two beautiful, powerful halves, the tear-dropped shaped ridge at the top a splotch of inky darkness beneath the hollow of this throat. 

The sight of his darkening scales and the pull of muscle across his chest and stomach was almost enough to send Julian over the edge. A strangled groan emanated from his chest as he traced the armoured curve of Garak’s lower ribs. An answering sound, almost desperately needy, rose in response to the touch. Julian repeated the movement, and felt Garak clench so tightly around him it sent shockwaves of pain-tipped pleasure rippling through him. 

Julian’s skin was slick with sweat. He could feel it running down the hollow of his spine, between the valley of his buttocks, along the cords of his neck. He watched sweat bead on Garak, too. Unable to help himself, he bent his head and ran the flat of his tongue across the soft, damp scales of his neck, stopping to nip at the darkened ridges where they met his shoulders. The sound Garak made was almost embarrassingly needy. There was something so deeply erotic about teasing him this way, about mouthing the swollen ridges of his neck as he fucked him, the Cardassian’s cock trapped between them, smearing hot fluid across his belly. 

“Julian,” Garak hissed. 

Julian’s hips jerked helplessly at the sound of his name, breaking his rhythm. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his hands, drawing back to watch Garak writhe beneath him. 

Garak was beautiful like this; hard and panting, his brow creasing with effort, muscles tensing with every deep thrust of Julian’s cock. Garak arched his back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Julian’s buttocks, sending shockwaves of pleasure through the Doctor.

“Fuck, Elim.”

The vulgarity sent Garak over the edge. With an agonised moan, he came hard, contracting around Jullian’s cock as he spilled himself across his stomach. He was repeating Jullian’s name like a litany, whispering over and over as if it were the only word he knew. Julian bit down upon Garak’s shoulder hard as his own orgasm came crashing over him. Blood roared in his ears, drowning out the low groans Garak couldn’t help but make as his hips jerked against him. He felt like he was floating, utterly exhausted. His head dropped heavily to Garak’s chest as he slipped wetly from him. 

They lay in a sticky heap upon the floor for a few long minutes, each luxuriating in the touch of the other. In the intimacy of the moment. It was only when Garak began to shiver that they moved to the relative comfort of the bedroom, settling beneath the thick duvet, Julian’s head nestled against Garak’s chest.

Silence reigned. A comfortable silence, filled with nothing but the warmth of one another. Garak ran his fingers through Julian’s hair; Julian traced circles across the back of Garak's hand. He stared at Garak's nails, a natural grey, remembering the ghost of sharp, black claws.

"Vanity, Julian," said Garak, breaking the silence. 

"Pardon?"

"My nails. I kept them sharp and painted for the sake of vanity. It was the fashion of the time."

Julian smiled, tracing the gray nails, clipped short and square. "And you are a slave to it."

"One must have a hobby."

There was a pause. Then, unable to keep the dots from connecting themselves, Julian said, "Your codename. Ta'kak..."

"Tailor." Garak exhaled softly. "Yes. Tain's idea of a joke. Not particularly amusing, but he never was a humorous man.” There was another pause. Longer this time. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s because I reshape facts, figures, circumstances to make things fit. And I really was rather good at it towards the end."

There was a wistful tone to Garak’s words. Julian thought of his younger counterpart, of the spark he had seen in his eye; a spark that was missing from the eyes of his lover.

Elim Garak hadn't died on Omigos 15, but on Deep Space Nine. And Julian had never noticed. 

He only hoped that he could bring that spark back. 

"Do you miss it?” he said. “Working for the Order?"

"Do you really want to know the answer, Julian? Or would you rather have the mystery?" Garak replied, pressing a kiss into his hair.

Julian decided to leave the subject be. For now, at least. 

"You wouldn't tell me the truth anyway," he said with a smile. 

Garak laced his fingers with Julian’s and silence descended once more. Outside, in the endless night beyond the station, the stars twinkled. Ships passed the porthole in blazes of blue and white and yellow. Planets spun. Asteroids danced. And in the distance, a supernova in a cloud of pink and blue. 

Dust, burning.


End file.
